


The Nine Lives of Stiles Stilinski

by fotoshop_cutout



Series: The Nine Lives of Stiles Stilinski [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:42:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fotoshop_cutout/pseuds/fotoshop_cutout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski goes to Germany with his Dad and comes back a new man--or cat, as it so happens. He finds out that the werewolves don't so much want to eat him as he thought they did, and that he's in danger from a hunter all his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Death is Always the Hardest

**Author's Note:**

> This idea was started by a prompt over at the Livejournal community teenwolfkink: "So how about some were-something (werecat?) Stiles? Not only werewolfs are made by bite, Stiles discovered that the hard way when he got bitten by some stray cat. So you'd think that being a werecat in a town full of werewolf is like a death sentence? But true is that Stile's new smell makes him rather irresistible...especially for Derek. Big plus for purring Stiles!"

Germany was beautiful. Stiles was happy to be spending time away from Beacon Hills with his Dad (it kept his Dad relatively safe and out of the way of any werewolf activity). His Dad seemed to be happy too, and that was certainly a plus—him getting to relax and not have to worry about being called into work all the time.

The first day was spent jet-lagged, of course, but after that his Dad dragged him out sightseeing. Which wasn't so bad. They visited all sorts of ale companies and took the tours, his Dad being able to taste the samples while Stiles tried not to let him get too drunk. They got hot dogs from a street vendor for lunch and looked through sightseeing books to figure out what they were going to do for the rest of the trip when they made it back to the hotel rooms. His Dad proceeded to get good and wasted and Stiles let him, knowing they were safe and boxed in by the walls of the hotel room. Later, his Dad gave him some money and told him to go get something edible from the tavern next door.

He ended up with some spicy sausage with bread, something called _spätzle_ that seemed reminiscent of macaroni and cheese, and some roasted peppers and onions. He was carting the food out the door of the tavern, ready to get back to his Dad and convince him that going to the Neuschwanstein Castle wasn't romantic, so they could clearly go see it together when the sound made him turn his head. One of the cooks (he assumed) was unsuccessfully trying to beat a stray cat with a broom.

Not that he was like Scott and loved all creatures great and small, but this cat looked pitiful. All scrawny and dirty with a scratch above it's right eye, part of the right ear missing. It hissed and batted it's claws at the broom.

“Hey! Hey man, leave the poor thing alone!”

The cook, for all of his not understanding the language Stiles was speaking, waved him off and retreated back into the warmly lit kitchen of the tavern. The cat jumped up on the nearby trashcan lid and licked it's paw, as if trying to appear dignified. Stiles was going to leave right then and go back to his previously scheduled night, but a glance at the styrofoam containers and another at the cat and he found himself pulling out one of the sausages and breaking some of the pieces off (not to say it wasn't burning the _fuck_ out of his hands to do so). He stepped forward slowly, extending the hand with the sausage in it to the stray. The cat hissed and backed away, almost stepping right off the lid. In a smooth movement Stiles snatched the cat up, to avoid it scaring itself silly. He almost immediately dropped it again as the claws sunk in all over his arms, chest and swiped across his face. Swearing, he dropped the bits of sausage, unaware as the cat hid in the shadows nearby.

“Ow _shit_.” He brushed the cat hair off his shirt and gave a scowl at the small alley around him before stooping over to grab the bag with his dinner in it. He touched a couple of his fingertips to his cheek, where the cat had scratched him and hissed at the pain. “Fuck. I was just trying to help.”

When he opened the door to the hotel room he was still nursing his cheek, poking and prodding at it and wanting a mirror so he could assess the damage. One glance at the bed and he saw his Dad sprawled, snoring on top of the quilt. Stiles snorted and dropped off his dinner on the table before retreating into the bathroom. The mirror was old and had a lot of black instead of reflective surface, but it worked well enough. The scratch on his cheek wasn't terrible, but he washed it out anyway. He didn't want to chance an infection (that's all he needed, was to get some terrible, wasting disease from a stray cat in Germany). He peeled off his shirt and washed the claw marks on his chest and arm as well, scowling and huffing the entire time. By the time he got to his dinner it was only slightly warm, but he ate it anyway.

{ _break_ }

He woke in the middle of the night, tossing and turning, throwing the quilt off the bed completely and groaning. It felt like it was stifling. His Dad was snoring in the other room and seemed unperturbed by the sudden heat wave that had hit Germany in the middle of the night. Stiles panted, feeling a trickle of sweat run down his temple. He rolled onto his side and tried to bury his face in the pillow, only to roll back onto his back and hope that laying spread eagle would cool him down a bit. Eventually he fell back into a fitful sleep.

{ _break_ }

The next day dawned and Stiles felt loads better. Whatever that weird heat wave had been, it seemed to be normal for a June night here in Germany, as no one mentioned it. It was hard to get his Dad moving, but once he did he started babbling about the Neuschwanstein Castle once again. After some coffee and a shower, his Dad was more agreeable and arranged the day trip.

They arrived by bus (even though Stiles thought it would be really cool to go by the horse-drawn carriages), and walked down the steep path, taking in the sight of the tall, imposing structure against the backdrop of the German hillsides. Stiles took a picture from afar, getting the whole spectacular view of the castle with his cell phone, setting it as his wallpaper immediately. The walk down was unusually quiet, but Stiles couldn't help himself. While on the guided tour he kept leaning over to whisper random facts about the castle in his Dad's ear while the Sheriff only half-listened.

Everything was beautiful and perfect, and Stiles really wished his Mom could have seen this with them. The tour ended and they started walking down the path toward the village sprawled in the valley below. His Dad had mentioned that he was starving still and felt like he should catch up after missing dinner the night before. Stiles was too busy leaning over the railing, looking down at the village with his cell phone out, trying to get a good shot of it. He hung back a little ways, climbing up to get a better angle. Just looking through his cell phone camera at the drop on the other side of the railing wasn't so scary, he decided. He leaned as far as he could out without losing his balance (he was pretty sure that his Dad would revive him only to kill him again if he fell. He snapped the picture, not realizing how far he'd actually been leaning when his Dad turned around to see why he wasn't answering his question about where to go for lunch.

“Stiles! Get down from there!” His Dad waded through the (admittedly sparse) crowd, grabbing a handful of Stiles' shirt and yanking him back down to the path. Stiles complied with numerous sounds of pain coming from his mouth. His Dad leaned close and growled under his breath, reminding Stiles for a moment that werewolves were indeed real and that they were a serious threat (before he reminded himself that his Dad _wasn't_ one). “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

Stiles held up his cell phone, the picture he'd gotten still on the screen. “Just taking a picture, Dad.”

His Dad glanced at the picture, but looked back at Stiles and straightened himself up, putting his hands on his hips and looking more like the Sheriff than his Dad. “That was really dangerous. Couldn't you have gotten the picture from behind the rail?”

He glanced over at the railing and shrugged, “Sure, but it wouldn't have been as good.”

He paused for a moment and then hooked his arm around his Dad's shoulders, deflating the situation expertly. “So where are we going for lunch?”

Stiles _did_ peer over the railing as they walked down the path together, and he would admit that the height made him a little woozy. His Dad was right; but he decided the picture had been worth it.

{ _break_ }

That rail-balancing wasn't the _only_ thing that had brought him to this point, sure, there were various other instances that led him to believe that something had changed in him, but it was the claws that scared the shit out of him and made him second guess his human nature. Of all the places to have them come out too—the same tavern he'd gotten dinner from most of the other nights (because his Dad wasn't about to wine and dine with him, no matter how much Stiles begged). Some guy was chattering away at him in German, winking and lifting his glass (and sloshing beer on Stiles' shirt) which was annoying enough, but then he wouldn't let him leave once he'd paid for his dinner. He kept grabbing his wrist and wrenching him back around. Stiles could only handle so much of it before he lost his temper.

It was scary and stopped even the bartender in his tracks. The man who had been holding his wrist let it go as if it had burned him, his wide eyes never leaving the claws that were too close to a werewolf's to please Stiles. They retracted again, gone like magic and Stiles was whirling, taking off out of the tavern. He didn't end up eating his dinner that night, just sitting in the bathroom with his hands as far away from his body as possible. He tried several times to get them to come back out, but he was too shaken to really concentrate hard enough.

He did pull his laptop out and did another overview on werewolves to make sure. By the end of the night he convinced himself that he'd imagined it. Because he couldn't be a werewolf. There was just no way.

The next day, when he entered the tavern, the regular patrons and bartender from last night regarded him with slight suspicion and guarded respect. Whispers of _WerKatze_ followed him throughout the dimly lit room. He got his breakfast and got out of there. It took him until later that day to look it up.

“WerKatze” literally meant “were-cat”, which brought him around to thinking about the cat that had scratched him the day after arriving in Germany. Try as he might, there were no marks left over from that stray scratching the hell out of him. With a deep breath he dove into the lore that surrounded these “were-cats”.

{ _break_ }

He was convinced (after countless nights spent awake and going through the lore, plus the retractable claws making another appearance) that he was one. Still in Germany, he did what any normal were-cat would do: he tested out his powers. Well, excepting the whole nine lives myth—he didn't really want to test that one. So he waited until the night after they visited the Berlin Wall. His Dad was conked out not long after eating dinner, where as Stiles felt more awake than ever (he'd napped twice in the sun on the way there and back). So he listened for his Dad's snores and once he heard them, he was locking the door as quietly as he could behind him and tip-toeing down the hall. His Dad was a light sleeper, after all.

He made his way out of the hotel and into the dark. Most places were closed by now, except for the taverns (including the one he had not-so-fond memories of). He avoided the lights and dove into the shadows, climbing over obstacles and getting himself up onto the roof of the tavern. He was pretty sure he wouldn't fall through and have yet another bad memory of the place, so he went for it, running across with the lightest footsteps he could manage. He got right to the edge and stopped, eying the gap between buildings with distaste. He'd rather not fall, but he did want to test out his new, ahh—abilities.

He backed up and took a running leap, easily clearing the gap and rolling up to his feet after landing. The first thing he noticed on the darker rooftop was that it seemed brighter than it had when he'd been on the tavern's roof. His mind supplied that it must be the 'seeing in the dark' part. He really wanted to find a mirror, but all he had was his cell phone. He figured that would do and pulled it out, snapping a picture. Sure, he'd likely end up deleting it (because he couldn't have anyone finding this out about him thanks to a picture on his phone of him on a dark rooftop in Germany with cat eyes), but he wanted to see!

Sure enough, his eyes were a strange green-yellow blend, vertical slitted pupils that made it seem as though he was wearing cat eye contacts. He grinned, deleted it, and deposited the phone back in his pocket, even as he ran and jumped to the next roof.

The nights kept going like this (in fact, he found it quite easy to stay awake for half the night when he was taking cat naps during the day) while they were in Germany. He had just as much fun out on the rooftops at night as he did adventuring with his Dad during the day. That was, until the night before they had to leave for Beacon Hills.

Stiles had been venturing farther and farther from the hotel in his 'hybrid state' (as he liked to call it, because apparently he could turn into a full-on cat too [but he hadn't tried it]) and so was relatively far away when he encountered his first motion sensing light in the city. He'd been about to jump the gap between buildings when it suddenly flooded the area with a bright white light that blinded him momentarily. He tried to pull up to stop, his sneaker slipping off the edge of the building.

Blinking wildly and trying to shield his eyes from the light, he couldn't react in time (even with his super-fast reflexes) to grab the building. Perhaps that was lack of experience on his part. His claws came out anyway, and as he fell the three stories down to the paved alley, he was fervently hoping that the nine lives myth was true. Because otherwise, this was going to hurt a hell of a lot.

{ _break_ }

Stiles opened his eyes, the motion sensing light was off. He laid there, breathing hard and trying to remember what had happened. He didn't really want to move, not knowing if he was numbed to the pain or if he had just— _oh god had he just died?!_

Slowly, he moved his fingers, then his wrist, then his elbow; bringing his hand up to his face. This turned on the damn light again and in the blinding light he rolled over, remembering his fall from the roof above him. He didn't feel like anything was broken. He pulled himself back up, feeling bruised certainly and more than a little sore, but overall he was okay. He shook himself out and exited the alley, finding another way back up to the roofs. He felt like he was limping his way back to the hotel, even if he was not that injured.

He cleaned himself up quietly when he got back to his room, taking care to be quiet and not wake his Dad. He came to the conclusion that no, he had not just survived with minor injuries but that he had just proved the nine lives myth true. He put a mental check mark next to that one as he cleaned up the blood on the back of his head and the corner of his mouth. He rinsed his mouth out, getting rid of the blood in there. Just to double check, he poked at his head and around his mouth, not wanting any unpleasant surprises (like he was missing a tooth or a chunk of his skull was caved in) before collapsing into bed.

He slept nearly the entire plane ride back, only waking for food and the layover between planes. His Dad expressed a bit of worry at it, but he waved it off, saying that the trip had been so _eventful_ that he was catching up on much needed sleep.


	2. 'Cause the Boy's Bad News

The jet-lag set Stiles back two days (well, almost, it was the second evening home that he called Scott). He had yet to do the laundry from the trip and was stuck wearing the absolute bottom of the drawer shirt (that rode up his stomach all the time) and pair of boxers that he wasn't absolutely sure were clean. He'd been sleeping and eating constantly, trying to bounce back but utterly failing. Especially considering his Dad went back to work the day after they got home.

Balancing a laundry basket on his hip, trying to keep his shirt from riding up and making his stomach cold and calling Scott all at the same time, Stiles made his way down the steps like a pro. It was like he was really a soccer mom. He was shoveling the pants into the wash when Scott picked up.

“Finally, man. I haven't talked to you in like forever and then you don't pick up?” Stiles wasn't really hurt. Okay, that was a downright lie. He was, he just didn't want to be such a girl.

“Sorry, I was with Allison.” Came the distracted answer. Scott was always distracted. Stiles chose not to read into it or take it too personally. He figured Scott was like that with everyone—even Allison.

“So you want to get lunch tomorrow or something?” He huffed out the question, but that was mostly because he was trying to get the damn cap off the detergent and it seemed to be stuck. Checking around he stuck his index finger up, feeling the familiar sliding of the claw coming out. He used it to un-stick the cap, his claw retracting again once he was done. It was as easy as breathing now.

“Sure. Pick me up at eleven thirty?”

“I'll be there.” There were no goodbyes like what people saw in movies, they just hung up. Stiles finished the laundry and trudged back up the stairs, getting the next load ready before worrying about dinner.

{ _break_ }

He arrived the day after the animal returned to Beacon Hills. He set himself up in a run-down hotel that didn't cost much and kept their nose out of his business, renting as low a profile car as he could. He only accepted calls from his little girl, back home in Germany. She called before her bedtime every night to tell him goodnight. He loved her, and missed her mother terribly. It was a tragedy that had ripped their family apart, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let another tragedy happen to another innocent family. And yes, so far the cat hadn't shown his claws, but it was only a matter of time...

{ _break_ }

Now that he was over the jet-lag, it seemed his body was all set to wake him up at 3 am. He would have protested, but he needed to finish up a load of whites that had been tiredly tossed into the dryer the night before and had to be fluffed before he got around to folding them. This and his breakfast were done by 4 am. He lounged around, reading a magazine he'd missed from when he was in Germany. By 9 am he was tired again, and since his Dad was long since out the door (and surprised that he wasn't having to nag Stiles into getting up as he left), he plopped down on the corner of the couch that had the most sun.

It was there that he woke up, sun-warmed and snoring with head hanging off the arm, mouth open. It was 10:45, lucky him, so he lazed around for another fifteen minutes before dragging his lazy ass off the couch and bothering to get ready. So by 11:30 am he was pulling up to Scott's house, awake and totally ready to grab lunch with his best friend.

They settled for the burger joint that most of the High School kids went to (Stiles suspected Scott really wanted Allison to be there, that's why he suggested it) in the middle of town. Therefore, Stiles wasn't the least bit surprised to see Jackson walk in after he and Scott had sat down to eat. The co-captain of the lacrosse team didn't hold his attention for longer than a glance his way though, as Scott started in asking him about Germany and his Dad. They were well ensconced in conversation about the sights he had seen when Jackson paused next to their table, looking unsure of himself before awkwardly shifting his weight and speaking.

“Hey.”

The two best friends stopped talking to each other and looked at Jackson. Scott cleared away some room on the table and gestured to the seat beside him. “Need a seat?”

Stiles looked between the two, not sure whether he should be hoping for Jackson to sit or not. He was an asshole normally, but upon casually sniffing in his direction Stiles found that he was a quite good smelling asshole. So it was a toss-up: deal with what was sure to be an uncomfortable lunch, or not have a pleasant smell to mask the horrible almost wet-dog smell that Scott stank of (either it was wet dog or it was some acrid perfume that Allison was using). Jackson shook his head, nodding outside, yet staring straight at Stiles even as he spoke.

“I'm going to sit in the sun, actually. I feel like I'm drowning in grease in here.”

Scott nodded, sympathizing. Stiles caught himself starting to nod, but was more perplexed by Jackson's behavior—towards Scott, no less. Had he missed something while he was gone? Jackson lingered for a moment, and then headed outside. Stiles swiveled in his chair and reached for the ketchup, regarding Scott with a questioning gaze. “What was that about? Did I miss something? Is he...?”

Scott looked up, licking his lips to catch the crumbs and nodded again. “Right after you and your Dad left. I didn't know about it until after it had already happened.”

Stiles wasn't sure whether this was a good thing or not. For one it meant that Derek Hale was starting a pack in Beacon Hills and his Dad would be dealing with it (knowingly or not); but on the other hand, it almost felt like it was okay. That it had been fate or something.

Although, his nose twitched at the thought, if this was all fate he didn't know how being a _cat_ factored in. He reached forward and put the ketchup back after drizzling a puddle onto a wrapper to dip his fries in. Scott jerked up and stared at him, visibly sniffing at him. Stiles put on a mock offended face. “What, I stink or something?”

It took a moment, but Scott shrugged and went back to eating. “You just smell weird, is all.”

In his head, Stiles panicked. He wasn't sure he was quite ready for all of this to be _real_. So he stalled for time, letting himself live in at least a little bit more denial. He dipped his head and concentrated on keeping himself as calm as physically possible. He took a bite of his burger and shrugged. “Well, I was out of the country for a while.”

Scott seemed to believe it and went on to ask if his Dad was back at work yet.

{ _break_ }

He found him at some fast food joint, acting for all the world like a normal teenage boy. He sat in his car, watching from afar as the beast played pretend with a human. Another seemed like he was going to join them, but sat outside, watching his target as well. It was curious and he wanted to know why, but he didn't approach. He had to wait until it was the right time to show himself. His mind jumped to the gun under his seat, his fingers itching to hold it, to click the safety off, to press the muzzle against the beast's head and pull the trigger... as many times as it took. Because then he could get back to his little girl. His little girl who was probably missing him dreadfully already. But he knew he had to keep a low profile. It wouldn't do to have any questions asked about him. He watched the beast and the human exit and turned the key in the ignition, getting ready to follow them.

{ _break_ }

Stiles was trying to fish the keys out of his pocket, joking with Scott, when the hand clamped down on his shoulder. His whole body reacted, trying to skitter away and out from under the hand. His muscles pulled taut and he felt wound up like a spring from the scare. In his mind's eye he could easily see his tail poofing up to at least twice it's size from the startle, but Jackson's voice kept him from completely freaking out. The grip on his shoulder was tight, Stiles glanced back as Jackson spoke.

“I need to talk to him.” Jackson was leveling a look at Scott, Scott was looking concerned and on the verge of telling him to get lost, but Stiles decided to just go with it. If he was going to get the pummeling of his life, he expected Scott would at least try to stop it. Stiles gave a half frown and held up his hands, even though Jackson was already pulling him along, away from Scott and his Jeep. He hadn't parked too far from the corner of the building, so he wasn't surprised when Jackson pulled him around there and pushed his back up against the rough brick wall. Jackson finally looked at him, seeming flustered and Stiles tried to straighten out his clothes.

“If you're mad at me, can we just hit the pause button here and tell me what it is I did?” His words sounded kind of desperate, but in the past he'd had to deal with a lot of crap from Jackson. It had stopped overall when the whole werewolf thing went down, but now that Jackson had no reason to be afraid of them... well, Stiles was more than a little concerned that the pattern would re-emerge. Jackson's eyebrows drew together, leaning in and opening his mouth to say something.

Whatever he'd been about to say was thrown completely out the window as his eyes flashed the same electric blue that Derek's used to and he swooped in. Stiles tensed again, leaning hard to the side and not knowing what to expect. A hand caught him, holding him still and pressing him back into the wall as the faintest bit of stubble scraped over the sensitive skin of his neck. Frozen in shock and uncertainty, Stiles didn't even dare to look down to see what Jackson was doing. Though, he didn't really have to—his face was pressed against his neck, inhaling deeply. For a moment that's all that happened, but as Stiles was about to get up the courage to push him away with a “what the fuck, dude?”, warm breath hit his neck followed by a searing hot mouth as it closed on his neck.

Normally he'd be continuing with his plan of getting the fuck out of there and hiding away for the rest of the summer (maybe even the school year too, if only he could avoid seeing Jackson ever again), but with the tongue _lapping_ at his skin and the hands holding him steady yet wandering all over from his thighs to his chest, he seemed to have lost all brain function. His knees went weak but Jackson just pushed their bodies tightly together, basically plastering them to the outside wall of the greasy burger joint. The smell of fries and burgers wafting out from the place was a little off-putting, but the sunlight falling on his face and the hand on his—

“What the hell, man?” His voice was a bit shaky, but his shove was firm. Jackson's face was no longer against his neck, but he wasn't sure it was much better to see his pupils that dilated and licking his lips. He moved to step back against Stiles, but Stiles held his hand out between them, making the newly made werewolf keep his distance at least for the moment. He was almost afraid to look away, in case Jackson pounced on him again, but the wolf's eyes flickered for a moment and returned to the normal blue-green. He was breathing hard through his nose and even though he appeared to have control, he was clearly teetering on the edge. He took a step forward again and Stiles tried to step back, the wall stopping him.

“You smell,” Jackson's voice was rough with something. Whether it was arousal or the wolf, Stiles couldn't tell, “so good.”

The words themselves made Stiles laugh nervously. It was hard enough to believe that Jackson had brought him back here to kiss his neck and grope him, let alone that he _smelled_ good to him. He decided to joke it off as he edged to the side, trying to get around the corner and make a break for it. “Must be the new body wash. Old Spice, you know. 'Look at your man. Look back at me.'”

His hand grasped the corner and he pulled himself toward it, even as Jackson stalked after him, leaning in close to sniff at him. Stiles managed to get around the corner and backed off a bit, Jackson coming after him. “I really should get Scott home though. So I'll see you... later, I guess.”

He was sure his voice was an octave higher now, his voice breaking a bit on the word 'home'. He backed up, all the way to the Jeep. Scott was sitting inside, watching the interaction with confusion on his face. As Stiles scrambled for the door, Scott leaned over and opened it. Once Stiles had the Jeep door between himself and a hungry looking Jackson, he felt a little better. “Well anyway, it was nice seeing you. Bye.”

Stiles just about shoved the keys into the ignition and the car into gear, going as quickly as he could out of the parking lot. Scott waited until they were a road away before he stopped looking out the back window and raised an eyebrow at his best friend.

“What was that about?”

Stiles' heart was still hammering in his chest and he smelled... odd. Stiles tried to keep himself calm and focused on the road. His voice was tight as he attempted to answer. “Nothing; don't worry about it.”

{ _break_ }

He wasn't sure what was going on, but the cat almost looked _scared_ , and that wasn't something you saw every day. His gaze flicked from the retreating car to the teenage boy that had been left behind. His eyes narrowed and his lips pressed in a thin line. He ran a hand through his dark brown hair, attempting to riddle it all out. He decided that the cat's trail could be picked up easily and to follow this boy instead. If it turned out to be a dead end, so be it, but it was worth looking into at the very least.


	3. You Taste So Sweet

You know that river in Egypt? Yeah, that one. Well, Stiles decided that he was going to park himself in the middle of that river and drown in it. Really, it seemed like the best solution after Jackson had _molested_ him. Speaking of, it had taken him the rest of the day (after dropping Scott off and going home), plus the whole night spent awake and searching for anything and everything about WerKatze for him to even begin to calm down. And as soon as he started feeling tired? He vowed to finish reading the website he was on—only to read that WerKatze and Werewolves tended to be enemies. That sent him into another panicked haze as he tried to figure out what he was supposed to do in a town literally _crawling_ with what was apparently his mortal enemies.

Of course, he wasn't exactly sure what Jackson had done to him was what enemies did to one another. He was pretty certain that they did things like burn each others houses down around them (maybe like what Kate Argent did to the Hale family). Jackson most definitely wasn't thinking of burning his house down. Well, maybe he was. Stiles glanced out the window. Nope, nobody about to set fire to the place. It was only four in the morning, so perhaps he was just waiting, biding his time until Stiles was alone and vulnerable and sleeping during his morning cat nap and—his claws slid out as he backed himself into the corner of his room and slid down the wall.

Great, now he'd never be able to take that cat nap.

{ _break_ }

Later that morning (after his cat nap, which apparently he was able to take anyway), he figured that he could always approach Derek with an immunity treaty. Like, Stiles could join the pack—or leave it well enough alone—and _not_ be eaten for breakfast by the wolves. On second thought, he could just peacefully live in denial and pretend he was the same old Stiles as before. Yeah, he could do that. If Jackson started giving him trouble again he'd just show him that he had claws too. Personally, he was hoping that Jackson had completely forgotten about the incident at The Burger Shack.

Stiles jerked awake at the sound of footsteps in the kitchen and stretched, recognizing his Dad's scent instantly. He lazed in the sunshine for a moment longer, soaking up as much as he could before getting up and making his way to the kitchen. He leaned in the doorway and watched his Dad getting ready for his shift. He reminded him to pack a healthy lunch, to which his Dad held up a container filled with a salad before he shoved it in a bag and was waving as he went out the door. Stiles smiled and yawned, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he moved back to the couch, curling up in the sunlight and falling back asleep.

{ _break_ }

So far the boy wasn't looking promising. He stopped by what he assumed to be his girlfriend's place, and the night was quiet. It was late morning by now and he was about to call it a dead end, go back and find out what the cat had been up to last night. The boy was out the door, car keys in hand, and he was instantly awake and sitting up straight in his seat. It could be nothing, but with the way the boy was looking around, it almost seemed like it could be something. He waited and held back, but tailed the kid down the streets of Beacon Hills.

The kid led him to the edge of the Beacon Hills Preserve, where he turned off of the pavement and started into the woods. Feeling good about his tracking skills, he parked his car off the side of the road, pointed in a way that he could make a quick getaway if he needed to, and followed the trail through the forest. Was it possible that there were more Katze in this town than just the one he'd followed here? He shook his head. It wasn't as if they were all that common these days, especially out of Germany. This was probably just for drugs or alcohol, maybe a secret girlfriend. It wasn't likely that he wasn't a normal teenage boy. He followed anyway.

He watched from a distance, binoculars up to his eyes as he watched the boy he was tailing shut off his car and walk up to an old, abandoned, burned-out house. Well, not so abandoned. When he looked back at the door, a young man stood in dark jeans, a dark shirt and his hands fisted in the pockets of his leather jacket. Looking around, it seemed as though there was a car parked around the side of the house, just out of sight even with his binoculars. He shifted his weight and a twig snapped. He looked down and shifted back off of it. He returned to watching—the man up by the house was eying the forest in his direction. He held his breath, waiting as the younger of the two approached the older one and gained his attention again.

He couldn't hear what they were saying, but they appeared to be friendly with one another. They disappeared into the house, the older one glancing at the forest once more before the door closed. He decided to write it off as kids hanging out, even if the man with the leather jacket seemed to have heard him. He would check back if it appeared that the cat had anything to do with him.

{ _break_ }

Stiles woke up after his morning cat nap and organized all the research on WerKatze, shoving the resulting stack of papers under his bed. He did the necessary cleaning duties (his Dad refused to hire someone else to clean the house, even though Stiles sucked at it and hated it in equal measure). There was an odd car parked down the street a ways when he took out the trash, but figured (after sniffing at it) that it must be someone's relative visiting because it smelled like a rental. Though, he was quite a distance away, it could have just been a family's car. The myriad of scents had him leaving it well enough alone. If it became a problem he'd call his Dad, but it seemed innocent enough. He returned to the house and surfed the internet for a while before he got tired enough to take his afternoon cat nap.

He was asleep for maybe twenty minutes, sideways on his bed with his head hanging off and a light snore coming from his open mouth when he jerked awake. There were footsteps on his roof. Reflexively he relaxed, thinking it was Scott letting himself in. He closed his eyes and started to drift back asleep even as his window opened and a body slid through. The scent that hit his nose was _not_ the weird wet-dog smell that lingered around Scott, though. He opened an eye, hoping against hope it wasn't a new habit that Jackson was exhibiting, only to yelp as a hand grasped the front of his shirt and haul him up.

He was brought face to face with the one and only Derek Hale who was sniffing at him in an almost experimental way. Stiles held his breath, hoping he shrugged it off like Scott and _not_ be like Jackson (although he didn't really see Derek Hale ever doing that). The hand that was tangled in his shirt let go and Stiles had trouble finding his feet. He leaned back against the wall and regarded the werewolf with wide eyes. Derek had backed off a bit and scowled at Stiles.

“Can I help you, or are you just interested in barging into my room and ruining my nap?” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he had time to edit them. Derek just kept scowling for a moment, balling his hands into fists and shoving them into his jacket's pockets. Stiles was sure that they would rip at some point if he kept doing that.

“You did something to Jackson.”

Oh _god_. He'd told him _and_ he'd decided that Stiles had done something to him? Great, just great. Wonderful, really. Stiles rolled his eyes and leaned forward, pushing off the wall and trying not to look anywhere near Derek. “Oh yeah, sure. Blame the guy who was pinned against a wall and _licked_. You know, you really should put a leash on him, he's a bit too friendly to just wander around on his own.”

Derek didn't seem amused, but Stiles couldn't find it in him to care. After all, this was all Derek's fault, really. If he hadn't bitten Jackson, he wouldn't have molested Stiles. None of this would be happening right now. Stiles wouldn't be completely and utterly embarrassed about the fact that a guy who used to pick on him (and beat him up) on a regular basis had been kissing his neck next to a greasy burger joint. Derek leaned in.

“He said he lost control. What did you do to him, Stiles?” His voice raised and his tone hardened, one hand coming out of his pocket to block Stiles' escape route. Stiles sighed and collapsed back against the wall, finally raising his eyes to meet Derek's.

“I didn't do anything! Why do you always blame me? Blame the new wolf!” He gesticulated, almost hitting Derek in the face as he did so. Derek leaned in further, as if his face being more in Stiles' would make the point clearer. Really, though, Stiles just shrank back and avoided eye contact. Instead of continuing the argument, though, Derek just sniffed, his nose jabbing him in the cheek. Stiles tried to duck away only to be followed. “What the hell are you doing? Stop that!”

His voice took on a panicked tone and he slid sideways along the wall, trying to escape the sniffing. Derek glanced at him, but pursued, inhaling long and deep. Stiles' voice got shaky, like it had with Jackson. “Seriously, stop that. It's creepy. You're really, _really_ creepy right now.”

Derek drew back, his eyes nearly black with how much his pupils were dilated. “Why do you smell like that?”

His voice was thick, low and slightly rumbling. Stiles most decidedly _didn't_ like that. It sounded like how Jackson did. He shook his head slightly, trying to deny it again. He really wasn't sure why, but his brain supplied that it could be a defense mechanism of sorts. You know, like seduce the guy you're scared to death of. Or something. He opened his mouth to say something about Germany, but was rudely interrupted by Derek's nose practically _in_ his _mouth_. Derek pulled back just as Stiles clamped his mouth shut, eyes wide. He felt the familiar _shink_ of his claws coming out, but his hands were flat against the wall behind him, so they went unnoticed. He was so distracted by his own body issues (god damn it, why wouldn't the claws retract already?! He really didn't need this right now), that he didn't notice Derek's eyes flashing red.

He did notice when rough stubble dragged across his chin and lips that were softer than they appeared pushed, all demands, into his. His first instinct was to claw Derek's face off, but he fought that just on the fact that it probably wasn't the best answer. He had to be careful about this, he didn't need to be the only cat in a dogs versus cats war in Beacon Hills. So he used the palm of his hand to push against Derek's chest. Derek pried his mouth open with his tongue, just as Stiles figured out that he definitely wasn't strong enough to push the alpha wolf back.

Not wanting to give in, Stiles tried to bite at the invading tongue, only to get an approving grumble in response and sharp teeth nipping back at him. Still trying to push him away, his hand became trapped between them (and damn it, where were his claws now, when he actually needed them?) as Derek pressed their bodies together. The hand that was against the wall moved down to hold the back of Stiles' head, hips rolling forward. Stiles was pretty sure that he'd had some sort of fantasy regarding this kind of against-the-wall scenario, only it was with Lydia, not Derek. Or any other guy. He was still trying to push the werewolf away, but didn't have any leverage. Maybe going completely unresponsive would help?

Derek's weight held him upright. Even though he ceased responding to the mouth against his, it only made Derek work harder, his blunt fingernails running down Stiles' sides. He kept grinding into him lewdly, his thigh forcing Stiles' legs apart. And even though this was definitely not Lydia against him, and he didn't want to have this happen to him, his body reacted. Unfortunately it wasn't just a boner, one of those things you can shrug off and say 'it happens' because you're a teenage boy, but his hand clenched the material of Derek's shirt and a whimper came from his throat as he hauled himself up and began to actually kiss back.

It would have been more embarrassing had Derek pulled away, but he didn't, he just growled into the kiss and pulled Stiles away from the wall, guiding him toward the bed. In the haze of lust, the idea that they were moving toward the bed only stood out once he was pushed down onto it, Derek breaking the kiss only to shed his jacket. Immediately Stiles had a hand out to stop him from climbing on top of him. “S-stop. Derek, stop.”

Derek leaned forward and Stiles thought he was going to ignore his words, but he stopped when his chest rested against his hand. He was breathing hard, but his eyes weren't alpha-red anymore, so Stiles ventured a guess that he wouldn't be pouncing on him again. Hesitantly, he dropped his hand to his side, hoping that he was right and Derek was back to his normal self. For a second Derek leaned close, but then he straightened and backed away, licking his lips. He seemed to come back to himself then and glanced around, looking like he was scared of something. Stiles wasn't quite sure how to react, but Derek was already taking off out the window.

“D-Derek?” He got up and moved to the window, the man's leather jacket making it into his hands, but he was already gone.

By the way, Derek smelled like warmth, the forest and some weird vanilla-peppermint mixture. Although, maybe it was more that he _tasted_ like vanilla-peppermint. Stiles was pretty sure he could no longer live blissfully in denial, either. Something had to be done about this whole getting pounced on and ravished thing.


	4. We Lie Together--Just Not Too Close

So Stiles was pretty sure that Derek was plotting to kill him, probably with Jackson's help no less. Scott was too busy with Allison to pay much attention to Stiles' plight, and on top of it all school was starting next week. Needless to say, Stiles was stressing out a bit more than usual. Besides which, that odd car kept hanging around (it seemed to be stalking him), and he wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

In trying to keep himself calm, he started dosing himself with large mugs of Camomile tea. No, he had no idea why it was even in the house or just how old it was, but he was damn well going to take what he could get. He kept peering out the windows, curtains drawn and darkening the house as he checked on whether Derek and Jackson were approaching with torches and pitchforks or if that car was still sitting there, alarmingly smelly and gun metal gray.

Today, after three mugs of tea (with ample honey to mask the taste and basically counteracting the tea's purpose), he was trying not to doze off on the couch, the muted television on some cartoons and tired eyes watching the street beyond the curtain. The man in the car did nothing but watch the house. He'd never approached, never gotten out of his car. He came at different times of the day, watching for a few hours and then leaving. As much as Stiles wanted to mention it to his Dad, something stopped him. What if it was a Hunter from out of state? He didn't want to kick up a fuss with them about nothing (obviously Stiles wasn't what they were looking for—right?) and attract attention to the pack.

{ _break_ }

After the night that the man in the leather jacket visited the cat, he was on high alert. He still took his daughter's calls, of course, but he worked harder than before: not just following the cat anymore, but the man in the leather jacket. He found out quite easily that his name was Derek Hale and he had been a wanted murderer at one point in town. He seemed to be on the outs with nearly everyone, no one trusted him and no one talked with him if they could help it. The cat was the Sheriff's son—that could definitely pose a problem if things got out of hand (and they would). He wasn't leaving until after he had made certain that the cat was not a danger. So far he seemed almost benign.

{ _break_ }

Finally he broke down and picked up the phone, intent on calling his Dad and bitching about the weird car that was sitting outside the house. He was surprised when Scott answered the phone and had to look at the number he dialed before it struck him that he'd not called his Dad's number at all. It wasn't even close to his Dad's number.

“Hey man, I can't really talk right now.” Scott's voice sounded uneasy and Stiles immediately understood. It was an unspoken rule that no one called the third Sunday of each month—it was the one day that Scott had to see his father on (court agreement and all that). Stiles cursed under his breath, knowing full well that Scott could hear him.

“Sorry, was meaning to call someone else.” Of course, it would have been nice if Scott could talk right now. At least Stiles knew where he stood with him. Scott hummed on the line and footsteps, a door opening and closing, a couple more steps. Scott spoke.

“Did you need to talk?” He was putting his hand into his jeans pocket. Stiles could envision him squinting against the sun on the porch. Stiles snuck a look out the window and sighed when a ray hit his face.

“It's just—” Just what? Just that he was being followed? Because Lord knew that wasn't it. It was just that he got turned into Scott's mortal enemy while he was in Germany and yeah, it was pretty cool but it was also really, _really_ scary. “—I'm being followed and it's kind of freaking me out.”

Scott didn't say anything, didn't breathe for a moment and Stiles had to check that he hadn't hung up. There was breathy growl after that and Scott's voice sounded rougher than before. “Are you sure?”

Stiles bit his lip and stared at the gun metal gray car that was parked just a little ways down the street. “Yeah. Yeah, I'm pretty damn sure.”

Then the line really did go dead. Stiles was glad, but at the same time he hoped this didn't mean a pack of wolves was going to end up on his doorstep. He hung up and moved the curtain back over the window, cutting off the sun once more. It was weird how that made him agitated, not being able to lounge in the sunlight. He tried to shrug off the uncomfortable feeling, even as the sun started to set. With the other houses around and curtains drawn, it got dark in the house pretty quickly. Stiles didn't really notice, instead prowling around like a caged lion (which he supposed he kind of was). The thump on the roof got his attention and more thumps followed.

Being cut off from sunbathing for days on end made him edgy, so he didn't automatically think of the fact that it was just the wolves, but his mind went to Hunters and his claws slid out. He was almost to the top of the stairs when Scott emerged from his bedroom. Stiles felt a rumble in his chest before the sound came out, a growl that lurched into a hiss. A hand stuck out as Scott's eyes widened and Derek hauled him back through the doorway, putting his own body in the way.

“Stiles?”

{ _break_ }

Well this was just... awkward. He was sat heavily on the couch while Jackson kept an eye on the car (still there, man inside currently eating a club sandwich). Scott switched on a light and Derek wouldn't take his eyes off of him, standing with his hands on his hips. Stiles cleared his throat and tried not to look Derek in the eye.

“Your jacket's still up in my room, if you want it back.” He was ignored, Scott keeping his distance and trying not to act as if he was sniffing at him. Stiles shifted uncomfortably. Derek was the one to break the silence after a few moments.

“What are you? Because clearly you're not human anymore, and you aren't a wolf.” He was tense, like he was expecting a fight. Stiles refused to meet his eyes and shook his head.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” His voice was surprisingly steady. Jackson interrupted.

“He's seen us.”

Derek glanced over, Jackson hadn't taken his eyes off the car. “What is he doing?”

Jackson shrugged, “I don't know, watching I guess.”

Derek seemed unsettled by this, but turned his attention back to Stiles. “Start talking.”

When Stiles couldn't do more than flap his mouth open and closed like a fish on dry land, he stepped forward, leaning uncomfortably close and _growled_. A whimper left Stiles' lips, but before he could start recanting the whole story, Jackson had taken hold of Derek's shoulder in a strange sign of dominance. He'd left his post at the window and crossed the room to try to rip Derek away from Stiles, but for his trouble he got a face-full of claws. There was a yelp and an ensuing scuffle that ended up with Jackson pinned to the wall, Derek growling into his ear. “Keep. Watching.”

When the alpha werewolf turned back to Stiles, he started talking. He was much too intimidated not to, what with the blood dripping down Jackson's face. So Stiles told them about the cat in the alley behind the tavern in Germany, he babbled on about his balance, the claws, being able to see in the dark and the fact that everything pointed towards being a WerKatze—dear _God_ please don't kill him because of it. He licked his lips nervously and curled himself up much like he did for his cat naps, ending the recount with: “Oh, yeah, and I think I died.”

{ _break_ }

To say that they weren't sure they believed him was an understatement. Well, about the dying part, anyway. They completely believed him about the rest of it after they fully inspected him (Derek's fingers dipping into his mouth to check his teeth was a bit intrusive). Jackson kept sneaking glances between Stiles and the window, which made Stiles want to tuck his tail and slip out of the room unseen. He didn't like the attention he was getting, especially considering that they should be trying to rip him apart (and probably could unless he got lucky). It was only after he had been poked and prodded and questioned that he finally came out with it.

“So you're not going to... _eat_ me, are you?” He looked between Scott and Derek, still having trouble meeting the latter's eyes after what had happened just upstairs some days earlier. Scott scoffed and looked at him like he was crazy. Derek just scratched at his cheek with blunt nails. Scott glanced at Derek.

“Well we're not.” Scott said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Stiles wanted to high-five him—show his appreciation for his back-up in this. Derek tilted his head to the side and shrugged, still not saying anything. Scott looked irritated. “We can't, Derek. I won't let you.”

Derek finally spoke up, his voice hard, “Look, I don't know what I'm supposed to do here. This isn't exactly something they give you lessons on in school.”

Jackson, having learned better earlier, spoke quietly, not looking away from the window this time. “He's Stiles, though. We can't exactly just kick him out. I mean, smell him. He smells like us. I thought that meant he was a part of us.”

Stiles figured he meant 'the pack', but it was kind of nice to hear that he wasn't going to be munched on—at least not by Scott and Jackson. Derek shook his head and looked back at Stiles. Unconsciously, he shrunk back into the couch. Derek ran a hand through his hair. “Can you keep up?”

For a moment Stiles was stunned in silence. He blinked, but a grin slid onto his features, feral and mischievous. “The question is: can you?”

{ _break_ }

Stiles decided, later, that while it was nice to not be so worried about the wolves chewing on him, he did still have to worry about the being pounced on thing. Maybe he should start back where he left off—

So Stiles had pretty much been accepted right in like nothing. Derek had immediately breached any amount of privacy that Stiles thought he could possibly maintain with the three wolves around and snatched his laptop, flopping onto his bed and starting to read up on what exactly Stiles was. He kept looking up, studying him and then nodding to himself (or shaking his head), and then returning to reading once again. Scott and he managed to pick up some semblance of conversation, but with Jackson listening in and piping up occasionally, it made the whole flow stutter and lull unexpectedly at times. The longer this went on, the more apparent it was and Jackson eventually just awkwardly listened in.

Once Derek was sure both the car was gone and he grasped the basics of what Stiles was, he rounded up everyone and shoo'd them out of the Stilinski house. The parting gestures had been slightly odd, though he knew that they were just trying to ease him into it (it being the whole 'pack' thing). Scott had full-on hugged him, but he'd been used to that. Jackson had moved to do the same, but Stiles had shied away, settling with and odd shoulder pat that led to an awkward pet on his chest. Derek had hung back for a moment and gave the weirdest goodbye of the three. He rubbed his hand from Stiles' cheek, down his neck and gripped his shoulder for a moment. A nod, and then he was out the door.

The strangeness didn't end there, oh no, Jackson had chosen to come back when Stiles was doing some reading (this time he was reading a random paperback mystery that had caught his eye on his Dad's dusty bookshelf). Overall this was just too, well, _odd_. Jackson being friendly towards him, Jackson not wanting to eat him after what had happened at The Burger Shack, Jackson trying to hug him as he left. Especially what with the nature of their relationship prior to each of them becoming less than human (or was that _more_ than human?). But the fact that Jackson was visiting in what was considered “after hours”? Oh no, this reached from odd to downright absurd. It did help that he'd avoided the door and just gracefully slid through the window, so at least his Dad wasn't questioning the change in their relationship.

Without much preamble, he'd plopped down on the bed next to Stiles and leaned right in to see what he was reading. He scoffed. “Mystery? I would have thought you were more a sci-fi guy.”

Stiles wasn't quite sure how to respond. Should he make the point that he wasn't sure that Jackson did much thinking about his tastes (in books, no less)? Should he attempt to ignore him? Yes, that last seemed like a winning idea. Just ignore the problem until it goes away. Jackson sniffed him. Stiles felt a tingle at the base of his spine, like if he'd had a tail he would be flicking the tip to show his slight annoyance. When he didn't reply straight away, Jackson shifted, leaning back away and cleared his throat. Obviously he knew how weird the whole situation was, but he also wasn't anything like Stiles (the avoid the fucking problem type). He got off the bed and paced the floor slowly, swinging his hands and smacking them together in a soft clapping noise. He snapped his fingers when he turned to face Stiles, who was watching him curiously.

“Look, I was going to go for a run and wanted to know if you wanted to go too.” Jackson's invitation was a double-edged blade. Stiles was elated at the idea of running again (because come on, he hadn't been out at night since Germany), but it was also _Jackson_. Had it been Scott he would have been all over that in a split second, but he hesitated. Jackson watched him, waiting for his answer. “You don't have to, I guess.”

He almost seemed put out by the idea that Stiles didn't want to run with him. Frankly, he needed to stay on the guy's good side, so he shrugged and put the book down on his quilt in the way his Mom had always used to yell at him about (it would break the spine, he would bend the pages). He scooted off the side of the bed and rolled his shoulders, eyes flicking from the floor to Jackson. “Sorry, it's just weird still, you know?”

He cleared his throat, not wanting to seem like a girl, and grinned (it was a wane and thin smile, his anxiety seeping through). “Where to?”

Clearly this was the answer the lacrosse co-captain had been hoping for, his genuine grin (which had never been in Stiles' direction before) lighting up his face as he crossed the floor to the window. He glanced back over his shoulder as he started climbing through. “The Preserve. Where else?”

Stiles stripped off his over-shirt, knowing it was liable to just get in the way. His printed t-shirt would keep him warm enough anyway. He glanced at Jackson, peering through the window and waiting for him as he padded over to the door. “I'll meet you there. My Dad's downstairs.”

Jackson nodded and took off, disappearing in an instant, Stiles turned and trudged down the stairs, mentioning over an episode of COPS that he was heading over to Scott's.

{ _break_ }

He took his Jeep. It would look strange if he didn't, and he didn't really want to deal with his Dad's questions. Not after he'd practically dodged a bullet with the whole werewolf pack crisis. He parked the car and got out, eyes already yellow-green and slitted. He closed his Jeep's door and immediately smelled Jackson. He smelled much like Derek did, minus the vanilla and peppermint. He was more like the dry heat of a sandstorm in the desert and some sort of spice—different, but just as pleasant. He glanced toward the treeline and caught sight of him as he wove through the tree trunks. Wordlessly, they fell into step, their pace getting faster and faster until they were sprinting under the stars and tree branches.

The running itself was amazing—it was everything Stiles had hoped it would be. Even as some branches reached out to slap at him, he gracefully dodged the majority of them. Jackson ran around on hands and feet, claws out and eyes electric blue, tossing loose dirt and leaves up behind him occasionally. Stiles remained on two feet, his nails blunt; he supposed it was a marked difference—he looked almost human in comparison. Of course, he ran far faster than a human and had God-like balance, but he was still up on two feet.

He had only just thought that (his first significant thought since they had started running) when something seemed to change. It wasn't a painful process at all, and it didn't take much time. It just _happened_. One moment he was having to be careful about the branches whipping at his face and the next he wasn't having to worry about that so much as the fact that he was a lot closer to the ground. Jackson glanced over, then did a double-take. He pulled up sharply, his awkward feet and hand run making him take a tumble on the forest floor. Pine needles dusted over him and renewed the forest scent on him. Stiles slowed himself, trotting over to make certain that Jackson was fine (not that he expected him to be hurt), his tail flicked and he panted softly after the exercise.

Perhaps it was the ease of the change that prevented him from having a full-on freak out. In some sort of way, he thought it was frickin' awesome that he was a _cat_. Not just a little house cat, not some human hybrid, but a _cat_. And what a lovely cat he was. Jackson was staring, wide eyed and his beta-wolf features melting back to his human ones as he sat under the moonlight. Stiles flicked his ears and looked down at the fur-covered paws beneath him. His tail curled around as he sat, attempting to mirror Jackson. Jackson took his time to slowly reach out to touch him. When he finally did, Stiles swiped with his paw and pushed the flat of it—the padded part—against the wolf's torso. He meant to say 'Stop that.', but all that came out was something that sounded between a strangled scream and a roar.

Jackson didn't even flinch, he just tackled. With the weight of the lacrosse player bowling him over, his claws reflexively shot out. He had nowhere to dig them in, though, and by the time he did they had retracted back again. He did notice, belated, that Jackson seemed quite a bit bigger now. Jackson seemed to be careful about not putting his weight on him, but with all four paws pressed against Jackson's torso, he wasn't about to crush him anyway. There was something about the move, though, the attempt at forcing submission from him that made him push hard and wiggle out from under the wolf, flipping to get to his feet and arching his back, a warning growl and flicking tail following up with that. Jackson answered the growl with his own, looking ready to spring on him when the tail flicking stopped and he tingled all over, growing cold.

Stiles was crouched, completely naked and beginning to shiver. Jackson's demeanor changed again, seamlessly, as he crawled closer. His wolf instincts were making way for his human nature and he spoke gently. “You okay?”

He was panicking now, if his hyperventilation was any indication. Maybe it was the being in the nude in front of someone he wasn't really but kind of was friends with; or maybe it was the whole _turning into a cat_ thing. Either way, the panic attack was taking over. He let his legs collapse under him, not having time to really think about the fact that he was _naked_ in front of _Jackson_ enough to try to cover himself up. His arms gripped at his middle, his throat getting numb from the harsh breathing. Jackson was on him again in a second, but this time he was just hovering, overly-warm hands fluttering over his arms, shoulders, back. Finally, Jackson just took hold of him and drew him in close, Stiles' face falling into the crook of his neck as he tried to slow down his breathing. The warm, dry hands rubbing down his back and the sand and spice and forest scent helped to calm him down after a few minutes. He was still gulping down air, the hot tears that were dripping down his cheeks were starting to soak Jackson's shirt at the collar when Jackson drew back slightly. His concerned expression did the rest and Stiles was groaning at the mess he'd made of the night.

“What?” Jackson's tone was a cross between worried and scared. Maybe God just wanted Stiles to forever be in the worst (and weirdest) situations with the guy who was a werewolf and not quite his friend. Though no longer having a panic attack, it didn't mean that he was magically all better. He half-choked on the words.

“Oh _God_ ; I'm sorry.” His breath was shaky when he let it out. He tilted his head back, looking up at the tops of the trees and sky beyond them, closing his eyes and trying to get himself into a safe place before he would have to scramble around and try to hide himself (because he was totally not okay with being nude for an extended amount of time near Jackson after the whole Burger Shack debacle). It was as he was beginning to tip his head back down and get ready to run as fast as possible back to his Jeep that he felt it. Jackson's face was pressed into the skin near his collarbone and his tongue was once again lapping at him.

Stiles was going to swipe at him with claws and hiss—anything to make him back off—but the sensation... it was amazing. It was soothing and warm in comparison to the night air. Puffs of hot breath landed on his neck, he was more than embarrassed to admit that his dick twitched at the feeling. Jackson's lips were moving up his neck, teeth and tongue ever present. It should have weirded him out when he was hauled closer, their chests pressed tightly together and Jackson's obvious hard on pressed into the inside of his thigh. It should have made him pull away and say that he needed to get home, sprinting all the way there. But the kisses that were spread across his jawline, sprinkled on his shoulder, they felt okay. Sure, it wasn't Lydia, but it was attention. He squeezed his eyes shut, his lips parted as a mewl escaped.

Jackson's tongue dragged up the front of his throat, his Adams' Apple bobbing slightly as he panted. Teeth nibbled on his chin, then bit down on his lower lip and tugged at it. His tongue came out to soothe his lip and met Jackson's, which was on its way to do the same thing. Stiles wanted to freeze, to pull away and realize just how wrong and skewed this situation really was, but he just sank into it and started participating more fully in the make-out session. His lips met with Jackson's in a searing hot kiss, a moan bubbling up from his throat as he snaked his arms around the lacrosse player's shoulders. Jackson's left hand ran down Stiles' side, stopping at his hip while his right hand rubbed over his hair. Stiles tipped forward with his weight, sending Jackson onto his back on the ground. They were jostled by the fall and Jackson took the opportunity to roll them over, forever trying to be the dominant one. Stiles bit at his lips, showing that while he might be on his back, he was anything but submissive.

Jackson broke the kiss, trying to rid himself of his shirt. Through the haze of lust that had settled over them, he panted out the words. “You're doing it again.”

Stiles' face scrunched up as if in question, and he stilled, but Jackson dove back in after tossing his shirt away and began kissing and pawing at his neck again. He spoke against his skin, groaning. “No, don't stop.”

Stiles let the pleasure wash over him again and quickly forgot that Jackson had even said anything. His claws slid out, though he had no interest in using them for harm, and he dragged just the tips over Jackson's back. It was delightful, the shivered response he got from that bit of contact. Their lips were meeting in another kiss when the first shot rang out.


	5. Lucky, Lucky--You're So Lucky

When the first shot rang out they sprung apart. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck were standing up on end and his eyes were open wide. Two more cracks, gunshots. Jackson didn't even bother to grab for his shirt, but Stiles did. As he ran he wriggled into it, his legs feeling bare and vulnerable. He was scared enough that his claws hadn't retracted and he was hauling himself along by grabbing the trunks of trees and pulling and pushing himself, propelling himself forward. Bullets sprayed around them, but they weaved through the trees and quickly outran them. Stiles' heart was pumping hard, his heart-rate spiked with the adrenaline. Jackson didn't bother to stay with him, they peeled away from one another—Stiles trying to figure out which direction the Jeep was with his blood thundering in his ears. Half-naked and scared out of his mind, Stiles sprinted through the forest. The crashing sounds coming from far behind him meant that whoever (the man in the gun metal gray car) had been shooting was coming after him. He had to make it, he had to run faster.

He nearly tripped over his clothing, gracefully he snatched it up and ran with it, not wanting to take the time to try to put anything on. His erection had long since gone away, the cold air and fear being largely contributing factors. The trees were thinning, but he was farther away from his Jeep than he'd hoped. He paused and listened. A car passed on the road, but the light was still dim in the early morning and he was shrouded in the shadows of the forest, so they didn't see him. The man was still pursuing him. Stiles scented the air and took off in the direction towards the old Hale house, knowing that it was closer than his Jeep at this point. He sprinted off again, even though his muscles resisted starting up the momentum initially. He made it to the clearing and glanced behind him. Somehow he'd known.

Another gun shot cracked out in the early morning air. The bullet hit the tree trunk in the yard by the house, splintering the wood and causing Stiles to duck. He held the loose clothes over his groin, though he knew that wouldn't be much help against the bullets. Within the span of a second after the bullet hit the tree, Derek had torn open the door and placed himself in between Stiles and the man. Stiles was stumbling backwards, scrambling to make it into the burnt shell of a house. Not that he thought it would stop bullets or keep the man away, but it felt _safe_. He fell over the steps to the porch as the man growled out in what sounded like a different language at first, “Get out of the way.”

Derek didn't move, just raised his head higher, trying to prove his dominance just by confidence. It didn't seem to faze his stalker (now shooter) much if at all, unlike how Stiles normally reacted (which was to make embarrassing nearly-whimpering noises and be scared for his life). Stiles picked himself up and wrenched the door open, shying away when another shot went off and the bullet hit close to the door frame. There was a scuffle, but Stiles didn't look back, he just bolted into the house and into one of the back rooms. He had his back pressed against the wall, breathing hard and trying to listen to what was happening outside, his bare butt numb against the scorched wallpaper. He yanked on his boxers after fishing them out of his jeans.

He didn't hear much, the walls cushioning a lot of the sounds from the front of the house. He didn't hear anymore gunshots, which had to be a good thing—unless Derek had killed the guy and was burying the body. On second thought, maybe he should go check...

The front door opened and closed, Stiles had his pants half-way up his legs. He froze, sniffing but not being able to smell anything beyond the old coal smell and the frigid morning air. He held his breath, pressing back against the wall. The material on his lower half felt scratchy and coarse against his numb skin. Derek turned the corner and grabbed the shoulder of his— _Jackson's_ —t-shirt. Stiles simultaneously wanted to yelp and sigh with relief (it wasn't a gun-toting maniac, but he was still _scary_ ). He made a strangled sort of sound instead and tripped over his pants that still weren't pulled up all the way. Derek had him pinned against the opposite wall within seconds, his breath warm with vanilla and peppermint on Stiles' face.

“What the hell were you thinking?!” Derek's voice was loud and demanding, sending Stiles into a frenzy of pathetic sounding whimpers. He tried to look as small as possible against the wall and knew it wasn't working when Derek kept on, his eyes their normal green but still unnerving as they stared into his brown ones. “You almost got _killed_ , doesn't that mean anything to you?”

Then Stiles realized it—he sounded _concerned_.

{ _break_ }

He suspected something was up when that Derek Hale character with two other young men who had been around the cat earlier on entered the house through the upstairs window. When a single light came on and the one he'd been following (until he'd led to Derek Hale) started peering out the window at him his curiosity increased two-fold. He was tailing the _Sheriff's son_ , wouldn't you think he would call the _Sheriff_ if he realized he was being followed? But instead it seemed as though he'd called these three. Either he had terrible judgment or there were a lot of secrets between father and son. Still, he munched on a club sandwich he'd gotten from the Arby's in town while he watched. He couldn't see much, due to the curtain coverage, but he did see enough to pique his interest. They migrated from downstairs up to the cat's bedroom before he left. They didn't seem to be doing much, so he let it slide.

He took a break and went off to relieve himself and rest. He was just coming back to watch again when the cat left in his car. He followed, of course, and was led to the forest. It was little surprise when the cat took off, sprinting with super-human speed into the forest. He tracked him, but was quite surprised to see tracks of a different variety—something he couldn't distinguish past the scuff of what looked like shoes. It was curious. He followed them deep into The Preserve, toting his gun easily. It took him some time to catch up (he had to keep checking for where they had gone and had to be quiet), but when he did they were fighting—or embracing, he couldn't tell much from his angle. The moonlight caught the claws on the cat's hands, though, and he fired a warning shot. When the two sprang apart, it seemed he'd been wrong, they had been intimate. He wasn't sure which was worse.

He saw the other male—the one he'd tailed for a short while—drop to hands and feet and take off. He couldn't fathom what that was about, but he moved so fast that he was gone in seconds. He made a choice and decided to go after the cat. He was the entire reason he was here after all. He was behind the cat for a long while, but was able to see the silhouette of him as he stood in the treeline, dim headlights sweeping over him. He was certain the cat was going to head back to his car (in which case he'd have to give up the chase), but instead the cat veered and went the opposite direction. It took him a moment to think of where he could possibly be headed, but it connected and he started off in the shortest possible route to his destination. He was right behind the cat when he got there.

He shot once, hitting the tree near to the beast and scaring it. He wasn't sure when, but Derek Hale was there (like he'd just appeared out of thin air), and stood between him and the cat, as if he was protecting the monster from him. The cat was trying to enter the shell of a house, he shot once more and hit close to him, but the hand on his gun had prevented him from taking him down. Derek Hale was there—right in front of him—and wrenching the gun from his hand with superior strength. He struggled and the gun ended up flung away. He swept a leg out, trying to get the leather jacket wearing man off his feet. They fought, throwing punches and kicks for a moment before he figured out that he wasn't going to win this time. Abandoning his gun and his objective, at least for the moment, he took off back into the forest.

{ _break_ }

Stiles unfurled himself a little bit: lazy-warm and sleepy. He stretched out, all cat-like and yawned. His Dad tapped his knuckles on the arm of the couch. It had been a week since he'd been shot at and while he'd been skirting around his Dad's service piece with a little extra care, he'd settled back into his routine quite easily. Besides, if it was anything to go by, he didn't think he'd be seeing his stalker (shooter) anywhere nearby for at least a few more days (Derek had been quite pissed off at him and Derek was scary when he _wasn't_ pissed off). School was starting today and though Stiles was looking forward to classes (he was a nerd, so sue him), he wasn't looking forward to seeing Jackson. Or Lydia... oh, Lydia...

He hadn't seen her all summer (he chose to keep an extra wide berth considering that she was probably pissed off at him for just leaving her in the field). She'd woken up while he was in Germany, but apparently hadn't even gone out of her parent's house in order to go clothes shopping. Stiles felt unbelievably guilty after he thought of it—how could she have even skipped his mind? He was roused from his thoughts as his Dad (who had been chewing on a bite of bagel with cream cheese) spoke.

“You ready for school?”

“Yeah, Dad.” He let his head fall back on the back pillow of the couch and rubbed his eyes with his hand before he sat up and gave him a thumbs up. His Dad nodded and gave a sort of smile as he jangled his own keys, pulling them out of his pocket.

“Don't be late.” Half a warning, half a joke. Stiles nodded and gave a tired smile in response. Then his Dad was gone, out the door and headed to work. Stiles had ten more minutes before he had to be out the door.

{ _break_ }

The day actually wasn't so bad... at first. He'd been in the presence of Allison and Scott, so he'd been able to skate by without anyone really noticing. When Lydia entered any room, the whole class went silent and it got mega uncomfortable, but on the plus side, she hadn't directed any sort of attention to Stiles. Well, he wasn't sure if that was a negative or a positive... he almost wanted to go talk to her, but kept chickening out.

Scott seemed to be intentionally shielding him the more the day went on—making sure he was away from windows and glancing at him all the time whenever they were in class. It was at lunch that things came to a head. Jackson had sat down in the chair next to Stiles, Scott on the other side, and quite a few of the other lacrosse players had followed after the two. Jackson kept leaning uncomfortably close and Stiles, in turn, kept leaning further into Scott. He was trying to ignore that he'd practically made out with the jock twice over the summer and blamed the incidents on his rollercoaster-like emotions that he'd been dragged through. He was more used to it now (he thought) and decided that it was something that wouldn't be happening again. Apparently Jackson hadn't gotten the memo.

Jackson had leaned closer yet again and Stiles leaned hard, knocking his shoulder into Scott's. Scott fumbled the kiss he'd been about to land on Allison's cheek and ended up kissing her eye, causing him to growl and toss a glare over at Stiles. Stiles wasn't paying attention because he was dodging Jackson yet again, so Scott turned his glare on him. “Lay off, dude.”

His voice sounded perfectly normal, but his eyes told a different story. Jackson met them and Stiles wished he could disappear. If there was going to be a dog fight, he most definitely didn't want to be in the middle of it. Danny was watching everything from across the table and Lydia was glancing curiously down at them from Allison's other side. Jackson seemed to acquiesce for the moment, but he started up again by leaning in and talking quietly into Stiles' ear. “You should come by mine tonight, we can finish what we started.”

As if to punctuate what he truly meant, his hand snuck below the table and squeezed Stiles' thigh. Stiles jumped in his seat, causing Danny to give them a very suspecting look. Stiles tried to duck his head and focus on his food, ignoring that his face was colored an unusually bright shade of pink and Jackson's, uhm, _offer_. Luckily enough, Scott had heard it and stood abruptly, Allison following his movements with questioning eyes. Stiles whipped his head back up as Scott's hand gripped the back of Jackson's shirt and moved to drag him forcefully out of the cafeteria. As Scott took in the glances of everyone at the table he fumbled an explanation. “Come on, Jackson, we need to talk about some _lacrosse_ formations.”

Stiles wasn't sure whether he should be relieved that Scott was actually taking an interest in how messed up his life was getting or if he should be worried that a dog fight was about to break out in the school. He stood suddenly, jostling his tray and giving a stumbled dismissal of himself, practically running out of the cafeteria.

By the time he figured out where they'd gone (he temporarily forgot that he could smell around for them), they were walking back in from outside. They smelled like the mowed lawn from the lacrosse field, so he figured that Scott had dragged Jackson out there. Scott approached him easily and thumped his hand down on his shoulder. Okay, so Scott was okay but where was—Jackson lingered slightly behind, his eyes a little downcast, but he kept peeking up through his eyelashes at Stiles. Stiles looked back at Scott, who had turned him back around and slung his arm around his shoulder.

“Should I be worried?” The words tumbled out, unbidden. The fact that Scott was all buddy-buddy with him (and rubbing his wet-dog smell everywhere) and completely unconcerned about Jackson, well, it raised red flags. Stiles glanced back at Jackson. He was physically fine, he was even back to staring at Stiles (which was quite uncomfortable), so he turned back to Scott with a raised eyebrow. Scott patted his shoulder and shrugged. Allison, Lydia and Danny were coming out of the cafeteria doors, walking toward them. Scott waved at Allison with a smile, slipping his arm from around Stiles' shoulders and glanced at him.

“Good luck.” Scott looked like he was going to say more, but Allison was within earshot and had latched herself onto Scott. Scott latched back and Stiles had the urge to sigh exasperatedly. Jackson appeared at his shoulder and looked directly at him.

“Maybe a movie instead?” He sounded admonished, but all Stiles could do was throw his hands up and shake his head, retreating to grab his backpack and hurry off to his next class.

{ _break_ }

Stiles managed to make it through his last three classes of the day (the urge to just sleep through them wasn't almost insurmountable) and was tiredly trudging out to his Jeep, rubbing his face with his empty hand. He yawned and was quite glad that there wasn't any lacrosse practice today so he could catch a cat nap on the couch when he got home. He had tossed his bag through the window to his Jeep and reached for the handle of the driver's side door. A hand landed on his shoulder and spun him around, shoving him into the side of his car. Instantly alert, his lips parted and he went to say something most probably sarcastic and likely to end in his extreme pain but his words were silenced by the look in Derek's eyes. He let himself be dragged off through the parking lot, the pace making him trip over himself in order to keep up. It wasn't until they were in the forest that Derek's grip loosened a bit. Stiles didn't struggle, though, he just kept following as he tried to pick his way through the forest without falling over anything.

He wasn't sure how long they had been walking, but it was in silence. The rustling of the leaves under their step was the only sound as Derek led the way. His hand was still wrapped around Stiles' forearm, but he knew better than to complain or try to get out of his grip. Derek kept scenting and looking around—it made Stiles squeamish, always expecting something scary to pop out at them (not to mention the last time he'd been out here was when he was _shot at_ ). Stiles only started to recognize his surroundings for the last couple of minutes. He knew that Derek was bringing him to his family's old house, but he wasn't sure why exactly (unless it was either more humping, and he _seriously_ hoped not, or he was going to be killed). On that thought he suddenly stopped. Derek walked two more steps before he came to the end of the line and Stiles' arm tugged in his grasp. Derek glanced back. Stiles swallowed thickly. Derek sighed and did that thing when you know he's about to yell.

“You know, I don't really want to be led like a lamb to slaughter,” He yanked his arm out of Derek's hold and crossed his arms over his chest, getting a bit defensive. “So I think you should probably tell me just why we're out here in the middle of the woods.”

Derek rolled his eyes and growled under his breath, but it was more human than wolf so Stiles guessed that he was okay for now. He fisted his hands and shoved them in his jacket's pockets. He looked back at Stiles in a way that made him feel like he was under a microscope. He shifted uncomfortably and tried not to look away. He dropped his eyes anyway and immediately cussed himself out inside his head, looking back into Derek's eyes again. Derek shook his head and reached out, grabbing Stiles' shirt at the shoulder and hauling him forward again. He started talking again, so Stiles quit fighting the movement and tried to listen. “You've practically got a target on your back and you act like it's just another day in Beacon Hills.”

Stiles shrugged, “Well I don't really expect him to come back. I mean, you scared him pretty good—right?”

Derek looked at him like he was crazy and strode forward at the same staggering pace as before, dragging him out of the trees and into the yard around the old Hale house. Stiles glanced at the house for a second, but ended up looking back at Derek as he didn't say anything. His voice was a bit higher when he spoke this time. “You did, didn't you? Please tell me you scared him off. Threatened his family, his balls... _something_?”

Derek carefully chose to skirt around the issue that Stiles was currently close to panicking over, instead he threw open the back door and let Stiles go, talking in a raised voice but only because Stiles was currently tripping over a loose board and sending it clattering across the floor. “All I know is he's still around. He's in a motel at the edge of town and he has a small arsenal with him.”

When he got his balance back (and he did rather quickly) he tried to straighten out his shirt and cleared his throat. He was trying not to have a panic attack at the mention of an arsenal while Derek looked at him oddly. He reached forward and tugged Stiles closer to him, his hand firm on Stiles' arm. Stiles pulled up short of crashing into him, caught somewhat off-guard from the sudden movement and snapped at him. “What the fuck?”

Derek ignored him and sniffed, and then let him go again. “Lunch must have really sucked.”

Stiles gaped at him, asking a million questions in his head—like was Derek spying on him? Did he smell how his day had gone? How did he know that lunch sucked? That was, until he realized that the stink of greasy food clung to his shirt, even after the trek through the forest. He closed his mouth and looked away, setting his jaw and trying to focus because _dammit_ there were bigger problems than the school's lunch program. Derek walked further into the house, wandering up the stairs. Stiles walked after him without consciously deciding to do so (which probably fed the alpha wolf's ego). Finally, after Derek leaned against one of the walls, Stiles roused from his thoughts and spoke.

“Do the Argents know about him? Because if they don't, maybe they'll run him out of town. I mean, they don't know about me so it'll just look like he attacked an innocent kid. That could work, right?” He had his right hand's index finger pressed against the side of his mouth like he was keeping a secret. Derek's gaze flicked to it before he met his eyes again.

“Sure, if you want to run to the Hunters.” It almost seemed as if he was put out over the idea. He turned his head to look down the hallway. Stiles wanted to give yet another exasperated sigh. He shifted his weight and shrugged.

“Why shouldn't I? They can help, I don't feel bad about using them—it's a win-win situation.”

Now it seemed as though Derek was actually _pouting_ , which was a preposterous idea. “You think that you can't trust us, is that it?”

Stiles was speechless, but he did manage to shake his head. He let the air out of his lungs, sounding like a punctured tire in the process and licked his lips, hands on hips. “That's not what I said. It's just that I'd rather leave it to someone else to deal with. You know, avoid the problem.”

Something had come over Derek, and he wasn't sure what it was. But Derek pushed himself back off the wall and looked directly at him. “I can deal with it.”

He took a step toward Stiles, “Let me deal with it.”

Was he begging?

Stiles' eyebrows knit together as confusion washed over his face. Derek's hand curled into the hem of his shirt, tangling the fabric with his fingers. When did his hand get there? Stiles tilted his head to the side and stepped back. Derek stepped with him, his grip never faltering. Stiles knew exactly where this was headed and quickly wanted to stop it. “Derek—Derek, _stop_.”

Belatedly, Stiles realized that his earlier panic had probably set it off. His pheromones or whatever it was that made this happen had clouded up in the spot where he had been standing and then Derek had strolled through it, inhaling and then getting all weird. Stiles put the flat of his hand against Derek's chest, but that didn't help when normally green eyes flashed red at him. Stiles could practically feel his tail poofing up, he _did_ feel his claws come out. Derek was maneuvering him while Stiles was trying to find a way out of this situation. It was bad enough that he'd made out, _naked_ with Jackson. He really didn't need another misunderstanding in his life. His back hit the wall and he tried to press himself back into it even though it was creaking like it might collapse at any moment. He turned his head away as Derek pressed closely into him.

He felt the drag of the tip of Derek's nose against his neck. He shivered and cringed, attempting to turn his head even further away. Blunt teeth sunk into his flesh and he yelped as they clamped down, lips warm and soft against his skin. The bastard was _biting_ him! He smacked at Derek, but to no avail, he just stepped right up close and rolled his hips into him. He humped his leg a few times before Stiles managed to give a mighty shove. For a moment Stiles thought he might be able to slip out of the way and start the long walk back to the school parking lot and his Jeep, but Derek just shoved him back. Loose plaster sprinkled down and the wall creaked, but at least he wasn't biting him anymore—and the humping had stopped too. Unfortunately, Derek didn't come to his senses. He growled, more wolf than human, into Stiles' skin.

“You're mine, you understand. He won't touch you. He won't get anywhere close.” He inhaled against Stiles' neck and laved his tongue over his skin. Stiles made a face and squirmed, trying to kick out at the older man. He didn't succeed. Derek kept growling away, sometimes just rumbles and other times speaking. “Jackson can't protect you like I can. He ran like the pup he is; I stood and _fought_ for you.”

This time he just snapped. Bloody slash marks dripped down Derek's face—from cheekbone down to the corner of his lips—as Stiles stood frozen, eyes wide and uncertain about whether he should be running for his life or groveling at Derek's feet. Both seemed like a good idea. Derek just gave a feral grin, his skin already healed, but he'd let go of Stiles. As Derek brought a hand up to presumably wipe the blood off of his face, Stiles took off.

{ _break_ }

To be honest, he thought about just sprinting home (forget the Jeep) or possibly running back to get his Jeep, but he only got as far as the Camaro parked in back of the Hale house. He was fuming, of course, and he paced the ground next to the car for a minute before he settled down into a sort of brooding, arms crossed, simmering anger. He leaned back against the car and faced the door to the house, waiting for Derek to come out and yell at him. He supposed he deserved it, but Derek also deserved to get scratched, whether he liked to think so or not. Minutes of silence stretched out in front of him and he was no longer breathing hard, but looking for any sign of life in the windows. Where had he gone? Surely he hadn't _left_. Stiles scented the air, but all he smelled was strange human scents, the tang of metal and gunpowder.


	6. Nothing to Lose

Instinctively he dropped down into a crouch, the scent of gunpowder scorching the back of his throat and making his claws _shink_ out into place. He clambered across to the door, awkward on hands and feet. He didn't dare stand up, though, in case it gave someone a target. He had the door slammed behind him and backed up, his back hitting a solid, warm mass. Derek was there, alert and trying to shuffle him back, away from the door. He dipped his head and spoke in a low, rumbling voice.

“They have us surrounded.” The thought of this terrified Stiles. His mind tried to quantify possible escape routes, but to no avail. It was either surrender or fight to the death. Wryly, he thought “ _at least I have eight more_ ”. Derek grabbed around his bicep and spoke again, “Stop that, it's not helping.”

Stiles gulped down a couple of breaths, still smelling of human flesh and guns. His hammering heart slowed somewhat and he weaved on his feet, leaning back into Derek somewhat gratefully. He didn't bother to look away from the door as he spoke, softly like a whisper. “What about the underground tunnel?”

As much as he hated to bring it up since Derek's torture, it seemed like the only plausible way to get out of this horrible situation. Derek's hand slid down to twine their fingers together. It didn't feel bad, in fact it felt better than just being dragged everywhere, so when Derek squeezed his hand gently, he squeezed back. He turned his head and looked at Derek now, eyes searching to make sure that it was okay that he'd said anything about it. Derek was looking resolutely ahead and tugged on his hand as he stepped back, walking quietly through the house. He led Stiles to the hatch door that squeaked on it's hinges and headed down the short ladder. Once Stiles was down and wiping his dusty hands off on his pants, he took up Stiles' hand again, intent on leading them through the maze of tunnels and rooms that splayed out underground. The lights that had been strung up by the Argents were long since taken out and Stiles had to wonder if Derek felt any fear at all, being down here. A chill swept through him, but he kept putting one foot in front of the other.

They were part way through a tunnel when Derek glanced back, putting a finger to his lips in the widely used shushing motion, Stiles slowed and clung to Derek's hand with both of his own. He could see just like he was outside in the sunlight down here, but that didn't mean he liked the tunnels at all. He felt weird—like he didn't belong. Like he was being oppressed. He shifted uncomfortably and glanced around, carefully scenting the air. It smelled like burnt flesh. He coughed and hacked while Derek gestured at him to be quiet. He ended up having to put the flat of his palm against Stiles' mouth to muffle the sound, because Stiles couldn't stop. Derek had his other hand wrapped around Stiles' shaking shoulders, dragging him forward again, but glancing worriedly between the path they were taking and his pack mate.

When Stiles had finally calmed his breathing again, Derek removed his hand and pulled up again. The air didn't smell so bad anymore, but that didn't mean that it wasn't still hard to breathe. He decided he didn't want to die down here, so he glanced at his Alpha reluctantly, gesturing forward. “They're here, aren't they?”

Derek shushed him again and gripped the back of his shirt, hauling him forward. They walked in silence, carefully picking their way through the debris strewn throughout the tunnels. There was a bang behind them of someone running into something. It was far enough back in the tunnels that it echoed off the walls, but it still made Stiles jump in place, instantly alert. Derek paused, hesitating for a moment, but continued forward. They made it to the prison bar like door to the outside. The hinges were thankfully quiet this time, but the rustling of grass as the metal pushed it aside made Stiles tense. Derek sent him out first. He was two steps outside when a hand reached out and grabbed his shoulder. He flailed and spun around to face the grabber, Scott already holding his finger to his lips. Stiles let out a ragged sigh despite himself, Derek ducking out of the tunnel and fastening the door behind him.

Jackson lingered next to a tree trunk, looking out into the yard. Twilight had set and the sunset was orangey-peach over the tree tops, but Stiles didn't take the time to look at it. He turned to Derek and grabbed for him as another inexplicable chill went through him. He played it off as though he had something to say instead of merely wanting to cling to him like the terrified kitten he was feeling like. “We should get out of here.”

A gun cocked behind them and the quartet whipped around to face it.

{ _break_ }

Lydia had a hard time getting over what had happened at the formal last year. Don't get it wrong, she was a strong girl (maybe not as adaptable as Allison, but still strong). Just going to school was difficult, and she certainly never went anywhere near the lacrosse field. Not that anyone pushed her to, except herself. She was glad when Jackson had offered to come over to study with her, although she was sure that meant actual studying and not sex. They hadn't done anything, even kiss, since her 'accident'. She wasn't sure if it was her or if it was him anymore, not that it really mattered. But regardless of whether or not they were having sex, she still cared about him more than she usually cared to admit.

His abandoning her to sit next to Stiles at lunch had been a hard pill to swallow (it was normal for him to force other people out of the way in order to sit next to her and she loved it), but she knew something changed over the summer. Perhaps this was just part of that. She had watched as he had gotten all buddy-buddy with the kid who had always had a crush on her. It was obvious that Stiles wasn't all that interested in the attention, to the point where Scott (who had always been lower than Jackson on the totem pole until recently) had dragged Jackson off for a talk. She'd been further put out when she was the second one that Jackson turned to for companionship—she'd always been the first, so she wasn't sure if this was because of her lack of motivation to go outside the house or not.

In spite of herself, she was more than happy to forget all of that and just be glad to be spending time with him. It seemed, though, that he was completely distracted. Conversation was halt and go, Jackson's eyes kept pulling to look out the window more and more. She knew something was up when he started fidgeting. Finally, when it seemed like he was going to come out to just say it (the afternoon sun was waning and she didn't have all night, you know), he just said that he had to go for family dinner. She knew that was bullshit, but let him go anyway. He was just getting into his car when the idea to follow him and see what was up struck her.

{ _break_ }

“Going somewhere?” The voice was heavy and foreboding, Stiles' fingers dug into Derek's arm. Derek glared down the barrel of the gun, defiant and dominant as always. Not that it made much of a difference, there was still a gun pointed at them. Derek growled, a guttural sound that Stiles almost didn't recognize as words at first.

“Scatter.” The one word had Scott and Jackson taking off on all fours in different directions. Stiles jumped into action, sprinting off at a randomly selected direction just a split second after the other two. Derek had chosen a separate path, all four of them running away from each other. Stiles wasn't certain this was the best tactical advantage, but he decided that running probably was the best method of _survival_. That alone kept him going.

He was sucking as much air into his lungs as possible and his legs were straining, tree branches tearing at his clothes and skin. A flash of strawberry blonde hair to his right—Lydia? A gunshot to his left. He took off again, he didn't have enough time to think about that right now. He kept going, feet pounding and throat torn up. He really wasn't good at this whole being shot at thing. A shot from his right and he kept running, hoping that he literally dodged the bullet. Then he was nearly bowling over a young woman with auburn hair pulled back into a tight bun on the back of her head. She whipped around and he narrowly avoided the knife she flung at him. He saw Scott out of the corner of his eye avoiding a spray of bullets from a shotgun as he ran in close to knock out the hunter carrying the weapon.

He turned on his his heel, a far quicker turn than most would have been able to accomplish without their feet sliding out from under them. Derek came from behind the woman Stiles had almost run into and struck her on the back of the head. Another knife was loosed before she dropped like a stone and it whistled by Stiles' ear, _thunking_ into a low hanging branch. Derek growled at Stiles, his eyes blood red, but the intent seeming different than 'I'm going to rip your throat out'. It was more like 'get yourself together', and surprisingly he listened.

A gunshot rang out behind them and Stiles saw the tail end of the brown coat whip past the door frame of the old Hale house. The hunter who had originally been after him. In a split second he had decided, his body flinging forward in the way it had only done once before and his clothes crumpling to the ground as he took off toward the house. His paws made hardly a noise on the porch, his momentum coming to a sudden screeching halt right before he would have run into the door. His tail flicked and he sniffed as his paws led him, at a walk, down the porch to a smashed in window. He maneuvered himself through it easily and landed with a slight _woosh_ of air.

He trotted behind a wall, knowing that the hunter would likely come at the sound with his gun at the ready. He sat, his tail curling around his paws. His whiskers twitched, he heard boots hit in the room across the entryway—the kitchen. Stiles moved toward the back of his room as the footsteps went to the front of the room across the way. His paws were much quieter than the boots, though the man probably couldn't hear either. He heard the click of the gun as the man pointed it around the corner. Outside there were thumps and yells and occasional gunshots. On the plus side they didn't seem so trigger happy anymore, so Stiles had to wonder if someone had gotten shot. He sincerely hoped not. The man angled himself out into the entryway and Stiles inhaled. He smelled of Germany, though there was a bit of Beacon Hills and airplane on him too.

He leaped from the shadows to land with the flat of his paws on the man's shoulders, knocking him off balance, and then turned tail and disappeared into the gloomy back part of the dilapidated house again. There were some curse words hissed, one boot stomp and back to what was pretty much silence. Stiles moved through the back room and waited, but his hunter was swinging his gun around and pointing it toward the shadows. If he was quiet, he might be able to sneak around. The tip of his tail twitched.

He didn't even see it coming. This hunter was quick and smart, so as Stiles was mid-air and on the verge of taunting him once more, he swung his weapon around and shot. Sure, it wasn't like it was a kill shot, but it might have been worse (assuming that he had the mythical nine lives, of course). The bullets hit him in the side—it took a second for the pain to register and the blood to spray, but when it did Stiles dropped like a stone.

{ _break_ }

Lydia watched as Jackson met up with Scott McCall (sans Allison) and stood out in the dark woods seemingly waiting for someone. She made sure to stay out of sight, just barely peeking through some lower branches of a tree as she waited with them. Then Stiles Stilinski was there, stumbling out of a tunnel Lydia hadn't noticed was there. A moment later Derek Hale was coming out of the same tunnel and there was a hushed sentence from Stiles. A shadow caught her eye and she watched a man walking toward them. They didn't seem to notice, too worried about one another and Jackson was looking in her direction at the time, sniffing like he was some sort of animal. It made Lydia tense that Jackson didn't see; she almost cried out to protect him when the gun was pointed at them and cocked. She slapped her hand over her mouth and stifled a whimper.

When they all ran off, Stiles sprinted faster than she'd ever seen him move—it was beautiful, graceful—but then he was looking her way and she ducked around the trunk, hand still clasped around her mouth in order to not let a sound escape. All hell broke loose and she laid on the ground, not daring to move as gunshots rang out through the woods at twilight. Twigs were sticking into her clothes and her hair was wrecked, but for once she didn't care what state she was in. Tears ran down her face unbidden, her makeup smearing.

{ _break_ }

Before he hit the ground, or maybe when he did, he was human again. His hands were pressed to the wound, his whole body shaking and seizing as the blood poured over his fingers. He wasn't sure if he could stop the bleeding, not with just his hands. _Oh god_ , he was going to die here. He was going to die naked, on the grimy floor of the burnt out old Hale house. Somewhere in him instinct kicked up and he was trying his best to crawl back away from the gun that was still pointed at him. The man—Stiles could see him in the light now and his mouse brown hair had flecks of gray that ran from his temples and vanished into the thick of his trimmed but full beard, dark eyes that could have been brown or black or even dark green but he couldn't tell because it was shadowed by a brown hat that was reminiscent of an old cowboy hat—was reloading his weapon slowly, purposefully, as if he knew that Stiles had no chance in getting away.

He babbled, like he was good at doing. He wasn't even sure what he was saying, although he was pretty certain that he wasn't goading him on, but he just kept _talking_. It wasn't phasing the man at all, he just proceeded with readying his weapon for the next shot. The scent of blood was overwhelming and he was sure that his pack would be able to smell it where ever they were. He had to drag his left leg because it wasn't working at all through the pain, his hands covering the torn flesh of his wound. He was almost sure he was crying a bit too, but who could blame him—it wasn't like he could heal up a second after like it was nothing. He was almost through the doorway he'd previously come from when the gun was loaded. The front door was right behind the man and it banged open, but the shot was already leaving the barrel. It was all Stiles could do to move his eyes from the bullets speeding toward him to meet Derek's eyes as they struck him in the chest from close range.

{ _break_ }

It was no question to him—once he saw the impossible amount of blood spatter across Stiles' chest and face, his torso fall back so he was lying, dead on the floor of his family's old house—he snapped. The wolf took over and a howl of rage echoed through the air, cutting through the fighting outside between the few hunters that were left conscious and the two beta wolves. Derek didn't even care anymore, his body changed shape and his clothing was left in tatters in the doorway. His teeth gleamed, sharp and itching to sink into the flesh of the man who was already taking off through the house. His paws took him in pursuit, his red eyes searching for the quickest path to the destruction of his mate's murderer.

His ears flicked as similar howls of rage echoed around the rooms, making him certain that Scott and Jackson had found Stiles' body. He didn't pay attention to them afterward. He chased the man, catching up as quickly as he could. The scent on him was foreign, yet the same as the other hunters' that were scattered in the yard and woods. They were all unconscious, so nothing stopped Derek as he launched himself in the air after the man. It turns out one of the hunters _was_ conscious and managed to sink a bullet into his side. It wasn't enough to put him down (he wished it could have been, if only he didn't have to live without his mate), but it was enough to let the murderer get away. Derek limped as fast as he could after him, but he was speeding away in a rental car before Derek could get there. Derek watched the tail lights disappear into the distance, vowing to get revenge on him as he turned back and limped his way back to the house.

He skirted around the conscious hunters in the yard and slipped through the back door of the house, his body changing back slowly. The bullet plunked out over the floor boards and his wound started closing up as he crossed the floorboards. Jackson and Scott were huddled there, whimpering and growling and crying, but moved when he rumbled a growl and dropped to his knees beside his mate's corpse. He reached out, his hand entirely human, a wave of grief washing over him as he touched his shoulder. A half howl, half sob choked out of him and he yanked Stiles' body close to him, his arms encircling his upper torso. It was where most of the bullets were and the blood was, but Derek didn't care. He cared more about looking into the glassy eyes that were open and staring blankly, caught in his expression of utter terror and pain. He didn't notice anything else, he couldn't.

{ _break_ }

Lydia made sure there wasn't anyone around with a gun by the time she was scrambling across the yard, eyes open impossibly wide as she tried to find Jackson. She was terrified and hated the idea that she'd hidden from the fight—but what was she supposed to do? She hated the idea that Jackson had been hurt because she hadn't been there to help him. She kept tripping over everything: the ground, her own feet, anything that was nearby. She just barely managed to climb the steps and took in the pile of clothes in the door, but she stepped around them. Her hair was sticking to her face, but she didn't care. As soon as she saw Jackson, she flung herself at him. He held her close and petted her hair, cupping her face. He kept asking her something, but by then she'd seen what was behind him. Stiles Stilinski was dead. Stiles, the nerdy kid who was goofy and admittedly very funny and had always been vying for her attention, was dead. He'd been shot. She wasn't able to respond to anything. Jackson was buzzing about, still asking her something and trying to get her hair out of her face, but she didn't hear him. She looked at him with some confusion and they sunk down to sit on the floor of this old run-down house. There was just so much _blood_.

{ _break_ }

It felt like so much time had passed. He was stuck in this state where he was sure he was dead, but there was no pain and there was nothing around. It was all a dark gray, a place where nothing seemed solid—nothing was real. He had no body, so he couldn't go walking about to find out if this was supposed to be heaven or hell or whatever, find out if there were others like him here. But it felt like time had passed and that he was going to waste his life here. Yes, his life. He needed to get back to that, didn't he? He couldn't go back just yet though, he was sure of it. There was some reason... something he couldn't think of right now.

After some time of just being in this state, not a notion in his head about much of anything, he was thrust back into life. The pain was incredible, but not as much as it had been when he was shot that first time. His lungs sucked in a harsh, ragged first breath as his eyes pulled everything back into focus. Skin, slightly tan but smooth skin. An arm muscle that bulged near his face. His heart was pumping hard, but maybe that was just in contrast to the nothing he'd been feeling earlier. Then Derek's face was there, just above his, eyes wide and hot tears coursing down to splash on Stiles' cheek. Was Derek... was he _crying_?

Stiles was trying to push himself up. He was saying something unintelligible, maybe about sitting up maybe about Derek crying on him, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that Scott was there, lingering next to him and hesitantly reaching to help Derek to help him sit up. He'd been crying too. Derek growled and Scott kept his hands to himself. Stiles was sore and he slumped into the nearest solid object—Derek. Jackson was clenched tightly to Lydia's hand. Oh, when had she gotten here? Derek's hipbone dug into his side, where his wound used to be and Stiles wrenched himself around trying to take in every inch of what used to be torn skin. It was smooth and not scarred. Stiles blinked and realized that Derek just might be naked. It strangely didn't bother him much. Not like being in the nude in front of Lydia. He requested a blanket and Scott was off to get one. Not that Stiles was sure he would find one in this ramshackle house.

Stiles' hand grasped the muscle that had been in front of his face when he'd come back to life, feeling it tense only slightly as Derek shifted positions. He sat himself behind Stiles and propped him up, the warm actually soothing his sore body. He made no move to get away, although he thought maybe he should. Lydia crawled forward a bit, it seemed to be the only movement she was capable of. She whispered, afraid maybe if she spoke louder that Derek's wrath would fall on her or something.

“Are you okay?”

He guessed what she really meant was 'what are you?', 'how are you alive?', 'what happened here?'. Because as far as he knew, she didn't know anything about the wolves and Jackson and hunters and _him_. He still found it odd that he was a part of all of this now. He nodded awkwardly as a blanket was draped over his legs. Derek's arms were around him again and his sharp gaze landed on Lydia, forcing her back to Jackson's side. Stiles was quiet then, just watching as the others contemplated everything and tried to inch closer. Derek kept growling at them to keep them back. Stiles wasn't sure if he should be grateful or worried that Derek would never let anyone touch him again. He decided to deal with it later, after he'd slept. He sagged in Derek's grip and let his eyes fall shut.


	7. Getting Good at Starting Over

He didn't bother to help the other hunters. They'd done their job—gotten him in to take the life of the cat. Except they hadn't done well enough. The cat only had one less life than when he'd begun this hunt and he knew that he'd have to make certain he was dead for good. Once he'd shot him though, the werewolves (whom he had been reluctant to believe in) went berserk. One transformed into an actual wolf and came after him—teaching him that they did exist and they weren't very happy about what he'd done. He felt it was a little silly that a cat would team up with anyone—especially a pack of feral mutts. He oiled his gun in silence, his eyes landing on his phone every now and then.

There was a knock at the door. His eyes landed on it as he figured that the wolves wouldn't knock. They'd just tear down the door or break through the window in order to kill him. He put the gun out of the way, yet still in reach if he needed it, and adjusted the knife on his belt. It was small really, a pig poker more than anything. He pulled the door open, ready to leap back to avoid claws of any sort. There was a man who had his side to the doorway, squinting into the parking lot. The stranger turned to him and offered an almost dazzling smile, his hand extended. He gave it a long look before he took it in a hand shake. The stranger spoke.

“Chris Argent. May I come in?” But he was already angling his body in through the door as he spoke. He supposed that he could have slammed the door on him or used his own body to stop him, but this man seemed sure he had the right guy, so he let him through and closed the door behind him. He turned and gestured to one of the two chairs in the room. Chris took it and sat at the table, eying the oiled gun. His gaze flicked back up to him and he moved back to sit on the bed. He hoped his daughter didn't call during this unplanned visit; he wouldn't want to have to explain to either of them—Chris or his daughter—who the other was. Mostly because he wasn't sure who this Chris guy was, even if 'Argent' sounded a bit familiar.

“Leon—it is Leon, isn't it?” He nodded in response, even as Chris continued speaking, “Well, it's come to my attention that you fronted a raid on the old Hale Residence. I'd like you to tell me about that.”

An order, not a question. Even behind his friendly mask, Chris Argent was trying to be a leader. Which meant he likely _was_ the leader of the hunters here. That was okay with Leon. After all, they hunted werewolves, not the cats that roamed the world. This town just happened to have an infestation of both.

{ _break_ }

When Stiles woke up he was in a room that wasn't his own. The sunlight was just barely showing through the curtains on the only window in the room. A breeze rolled in through the window, the sound of birdsong drifting in with it. He blinked and inhaled deeply. It still hurt, of course, but he wanted to know everything. The comforter was haphazardly tossed over him, it was a deep hunter green while the sheets were gray, like a foggy morning in the forest. The scent was purely Derek. It calmed Stiles slightly, although it still didn't give him any idea of where he was. He heard the clatter of silverware on plates—at least a couple of people were in the place. Stiles took a moment to stretch, his muscles protesting, but not as badly as they had felt before he'd fallen asleep. He supposed death did that to you.

It didn't take him long to suss out that he had on a pair of boxers—his own, in fact—and that his clothes from before his second death were hanging over the back of a wooden chair that sat next to the window. He swung his legs around and padded over to his clothes, the faux wood floor feeling a little slippery under his bare feet. He put on his clothes slowly, pulling back the curtain to peer outside. They were sat slightly back from the road, a gravel driveway winding in front of the house where the Camaro, Jackson's Porche and his Jeep sat. Oh, his baby! A rumble went through his chest, but it wasn't like any growl he'd ever heard. He shook himself and dropped the curtain, looking around the room. It was sparsely decorated, not seeming much like Derek at all, but impersonal—pretty, but impersonal. He glanced at the picture of yellow wildflowers and sun hung up over the headboard and shook his head—definitely not the Derek he knew. There was an attached bathroom, he noticed, so he went to rinse his mouth out before he faced the world.

When he emerged he headed straight for the other door and hesitantly went to join the others. He could tell who was there before he'd even managed to get down the hall. The voices, the scents—it was the pack, sans Allison. Scott, Jackson, Lydia and Derek. He rounded the corner and saw the open layout of the place. The living room blended with the dining room which blended with the kitchen. They were all sat around the island at the middle of the kitchen while bowls of bacon, eggs, fruit and waffles were passed around. Derek looked up immediately and rumbled a 'Good Morning' in his direction that caused the rest to look up at him.

He wasn't expecting it, really, but Lydia was there with her arms around him and her face pressed to his chest. She was so much shorter without her heels on, he noticed, but she smelled clean and fresh. He awkwardly patted her shoulders and upper back, unsure of whether this was something she'd stab him for or not. After a moment she pulled back and brushed an errant tear from her cheek, sniffling and straightening herself out. He tried not to notice, though it felt good that she cared. A warmth spread through him at that—she cared, Lydia cared! Then Scott was speaking up, motioning to a stool next to him.

“Want breakfast?”

Stiles' stomach rumbled and his mouth watered and even the pull of Lydia being there and paying attention to him couldn't deter him from crossing over to perch on the stool and load his plate. Luckily she just smiled broadly and joined them at the table. Derek's hands were there suddenly: helping him serve himself, touching his shoulder and finally just resting on his thigh. Scott wasn't being so clingy, and Jackson was directing his touching to Lydia (which finally seemed normal, at the very least), so Stiles just let Derek do as he pleased for now. The food was more important anyway.

{ _break_ }

When the hunters were dragging themselves (Dad's friends from out-of-state, she reminded herself) in for morning she noticed that a few of them seemed more tired than usual. A few of them had bumps on the head or were careful about how they moved—they'd been in a fight. Automatically she shut herself down. She had to make it through breakfast and avoid her mother's gaze, and then she could seek out her father and find out what this had all been about. The hunters were sullen and didn't talk much. Probably because she was still in the room, finishing up her breakfast. She picked at her eggs, but her roiling stomach and her nerves wouldn't let her finish. What she had eaten was making a good attempt at coming back up and she really didn't want or need that right now. She scraped her plate clean and excused herself, lingering outside the doorway for only a moment to see if they would start talking. They didn't.

It ended up that her dad was out. She wanted to find out why, but she didn't dare ask too many questions of the wrong people. Her mom still didn't seem to want to acknowledge her awareness of the wolves or the hunters being what they were and shut down any attempts at conversation about them. All she got out of her mom was that Dad was okay and he was just having a talk with someone. Hopefully it was a talk along the lines of 'don't touch the wolves because they're protected', but her hopes were rather low. She waited in her room until she heard the door open and close and her father's voice raising above the banisters and drifting into her room. There was some order given, a complaint and then her father's retort; but he was climbing the stairs shortly after. She was upon him before his feet had even reached the landing.

“Is he okay?”

Chris gave her a tired look and grabbed her arm, guiding her down to her room. He shut the door and pulled the curtains. She was a bundle of nerves and kept pulling her long sleeves down over her hands, balling the hem up in her fists. She worried her bottom lip. He turned back to her and offered a soft smile. “He's fine. I'm afraid that you can't go to him, though. Not just yet. Just get ready and go to school, he should be there and you can talk to him then.”

He sat on the edge of her bed and she regarded him with wide eyes. He had something else to say. “Listen, I want you to tell him that this wasn't my idea. I put a stop to it, so it won't happen again. It was foolish and unorganized. I'm glad none of them were hurt.”

She breathed a sigh of relief.

{ _break_ }

Leon sat on the bed after Chris Argent had left, gazing at the picture that had been in his wallet for years. His wife and his daughter, smiling and beautiful. Alive. He thought of what Chris had said. How it didn't matter, that if Stiles was in Beacon Hills then he belonged there. That he was absolutely certain that Stiles Stilinski would never hurt anyone. He didn't even care that it the boy was a cat and not one of the wolves that he was hunting, preserving—Leon wasn't sure what the man was doing with them anymore. Leon was supposed to leave town, go back where ever he came from.

He frowned. He wanted to, of course he wanted to. To be with his daughter and be safe and well would be nice. But his wife... her distinct lack of being alive anymore pushed him to want to stay, to kill the cat. After all, it was a cat that had killed her. She would want revenge. She would want the vermin hunted down and killed. As many times as it took. He pushed the picture back between layers of leather and closed his wallet, holding it in his hands for a while yet. He had a decision to make.

{ _break_ }

While the brief reprieve from Jackson being everywhere all the time and so damn close to him was nice, it wasn't good to have Derek still be all over him. He was pretty sure that Scott's reaction of 'good luck with that' covered Derek too, which wasn't so much help. So while Stiles didn't do anything during the first plate of food about Derek's hand, he kept on brushing it away during the second plate. At some point the alpha thought it would be a good idea to try to hold onto his hand, but a well placed claw did the trick. Derek scowled and brushed his knuckles across his face instead, which only served to irk Stiles more. Scott seemed to be rather amused by the whole thing. Lydia kept turning her wide eyes to him, but by the time he figured out why he had a forkful of eggs in his mouth. Actually, several forkfuls. He swallowed thickly and jabbed the tines of the fork in her direction.

“So she knows?” He glanced between everyone as they avoided his gaze. Only Derek held strong. It seemed like they were all differing to him anyway, which was just a pack thing he guessed.

“Yes, she knows.” No more needed to be said, really. It sounded like they'd had an extensive conversation about it and Stiles was willing to trust the handsy alpha this time around. No questions. They ate quietly for a while; everyone else was either done or picking at their food by the time Stiles had finished. It was then that he looked around for a clock. Derek was already picking up Stiles' plate and stacking it with his, carrying them over to the sink. He spoke, not even glancing over his shoulder.

“You all should be heading to school.”

The reaction was immediate, Scott was off the stool and patting him on the shoulder. Lydia and Jackson were latched at the hand as they cleared their places and headed for the door. It was kind of amazing to see how much power the alpha had over the pack. Stiles was slightly envious of that, but got up too, his bare feet against the tile in the kitchen was shockingly cold. It wasn't the sudden chill that held him up, though, it was Derek's voice. “Not you, Stilinski. You're staying.”

Stiles sighed and looked at Scott, hoping he would be able to convince the alpha that he should be going too. Scott just shrugged and crossed the rooms to the door as well, helping Lydia balance as she put on her second heel. Stiles scowled after him, partly because he left him and partly for being the one to help Lydia Martin. Derek's hand was on his shoulder after a moment and he turned back to face what was sure to be a flurry of questions or something. Instead Derek just gestured to the leftover food and spoke gently. “Help me put this up in the fridge?”

{ _break_ }

By the time second period came around, Allison was more than a bit peeved. Scott hadn't shown up for homeroom or first period and Lydia and Jackson were missing as well. If there was some sort of pack meeting, surely he would have texted her. She checked her phone again, but Scott was slipping into the room just as the bell was ringing. She put her phone down and her irritation was forgotten as he slid into his seat. She was checking him over, making sure he was fine. It seemed that her worries were unfounded—but she doubted that even if he had been hurt it would show. Perhaps something she should be incredibly grateful for in the werewolf abilities. It kept him safe, mostly. His hand locked with hers under the desks and he glanced back quickly.

“We'll talk after class.” Even though she was frustrated about the lack of information she had on what had happened, she let it go for now. Her foot tapped and she bounced the eraser end of her pencil on her desk, but she tried her best to concentrate on the class work.

Her patience paid off as they walked to their next class. She held tightly to his hand as she relayed her father's message, but his lack of response had her looking at him. He looked positively furious. “What is it? What's wrong?”

Scott pulled up short and turned to face her, his voice low but no less powerful. “Stiles was hurt, Allison. He died. Don't ask me how it's possible, but he really _died_ out there. So you can tell your Dad that a simple apology isn't going to cut it this time.”

Allison wasn't sure what to say about that, but luckily she didn't have to come up with any sort of reply—Lydia and Jackson ventured over, looking every part the couple they had been when she had first met them. Happy, content, perfect for one another. Jackson bumped shoulders with Scott, probably sensing something she hadn't, and made Scott snap out of it. Scott had the good sense to look a bit ashamed and he squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Sorry, it's just I—”

But she cut him off, “It's alright, you don't have to explain.”

She smiled at him, deciding to chew on the new information for a while.

{ _break_ }

It wasn't long after his daughter had left for school that the hunters were filtering out of his home. It gave him some sense of relief—he always had to be careful of what he expressed around them, as he knew things that they should never be able to stumble upon. Not only could he truly relax, but he was free to run his own errands. Of course they were all normal types of errands usually, but today he had a special one to do: to find out if Sheriff Stilinski knew anything about his son being less than human.

It wasn't long before he was all ready to go under the guise of making sure the police were well equipped and didn't need anything firearms wise. He kissed his wife on the cheek and made all his other stops before the one at the police station. Leaving the few items (all non-perishable) in the SUV, he crossed the parking lot and opened the glass door into the station, putting his sunglasses up on top of his head as he did so. The puff of air conditioning was refreshing, but he only paused a moment in the doorway in order to let his eyes adjust. A few people waved at him and he responded in kind, but he made his way to the Sheriff's office without much ado. He knocked on the door frame and waited just outside to be polite. He was waved into the room. He sunk into a chair across the desk and smiled winningly at the man.

“Here to sell me something else, Chris?” The Sheriff teased him, glancing up from his paperwork briefly to offer a smile back. Chris just leaned back in the chair and put his right ankle up on his left knee, feigning relaxation as he responded.

“Hopefully.”

The Sheriff leaned back after scribbling something on a piece of paper and setting it aside. He regarded the salesman coolly and ventured a question. “What is it this time?”

“Just a new type of ammunition. I hear it's going to be manufactured soon and wanted to know if you wanted to know if there was any interest.” The majority of the conversation was geared toward the rounds—which was convenient and Chris was thinking about sending a 'thank you' card to the company that was producing the new bullets just because it gave him a good cover for being here. He only turned the conversation elsewhere when they were drawing to a close on the serious talk.

“How's your son doing? School going well?”

Something passed over the Sheriff's face then, a shadow of something that Chris would have loved to know about, but he just shrugged and looked out the window in his office. “He's probably not going to make first string for Lacrosse again, and it's likely that he'll continue to have focusing problems; but I suppose you can only ask so much. I just wish he'd be proud of himself for what he _has_ accomplished.”

Then, almost like he felt he'd divulged too much information to someone who may or may not actually care, he turned back and smiled. “How's your daughter?”

“Oh fine, fine. Always with Scott—you know how it is.” This seemed to trigger something and the Sheriff opened his mouth to say something, but just then someone ducked their head into the office and apologized for interrupting, but the school Principal was on line one for the Sheriff. The Sheriff sighed and said a harried goodbye to him, which Chris accepted dolefully. The Sheriff was picking up the phone as Chris left.


	8. Let's Delay Our Misery

The day went by slowly. Stiles attributed this to the fact that he felt dead on his feet and would rather be sleeping. Instead Derek had him doing small non-stressful jobs around the house—he still hadn't figured out who's house they were squatting in, there were no photos of people anywhere. It was around mid-afternoon that he finally asked.

“So who's place is this?” It was the first time he'd really spoken since everyone had left, but again he decided it was due to being exhausted. Derek glanced up from where he was putting dishes away.

“I'm renting it, if that's what you mean.” He looked away as he put some plates in a cupboard and returned to the dishwasher to gather the bowls, “Do you like it?”

Stiles was taken off-guard. Why should it matter if he likes it? Instead, he just shrugged and looked around. “There's no pictures. Of people.” He glanced back over at Derek. Derek stopped and turned around, leaning back on the counter.

“Would you like there to be?”

Stiles stared at him for a moment, trying to riddle it out. His eyes narrowed and he curled up more tightly on the couch. “I don't see why it would matter. You're the one living here.”

Derek frowned for a second—not long enough for Stiles to think it was anything more than his imagination—and turned away, putting the rest of the dishes away in silence. Stiles went back to looking at everything, almost like he was trying to dissect it with his eyes. He found nothing interesting, nothing that answered any of his questions. Derek crossed in front of him and sat on the couch next to Stiles. He rested his left ankle on his right knee and reached across the cushions for Stiles. He watched the older man warily, not sure what he was doing. Derek sighed and leaned, catching Stiles' arm and pulling him close. He tried to resist at first, but then slowly tipped over, leaning heavily into the alpha. After all, it was only the two of them and if Derek hadn't wanted that, he wouldn't have been pulling him closer.

Derek's hands rubbed gently over his chest and left side while Stiles studiously stared at the fireplace across the room. Derek seemed satisfied, but warm breath on the side of his face had Stiles glancing in the wolf's direction. Derek's face was close to his, eyes bright and roaming over every inch of his face. It concerned Stiles, but he decided that maybe Derek was just much more of a softy than he'd originally let on. Stiles cleared his throat to speak his mind, but Derek got there first, a warm hand cupping his jaw to turn his head so they looked each other in the eye.

“I can't lose you like that again.” His voice was thick with an emotion that Stiles remembered feeling about his Mom. He swallowed back whatever he'd been about to say, his eyes looking down to avoid seeing that emotion coming from Derek Hale, of all people. Then slightly dry lips were on his, warm and inviting and Stiles' eyes fluttered closed. He wasn't sure if he should respond to this or just let the alpha do as he wished, but part of him needed this too; the part that still wasn't sure if he was really alive. So he kissed back, his heart skipping around and butterflies in his stomach. Who wouldn't, if they were kissing Derek Hale? He didn't know when his hands made it out of the balled up sweatshirt sleeves and into Derek's hair, nor did he know when the chaste kiss had gotten increasingly needy, his tongue being the first to swipe over Derek's lower lip.

It was then that Derek pulled back; it was slow, like he was extricating himself. Stiles realized this after a moment and tried to make himself calm down, to withdraw as well. All he wanted to do was curl up into Derek and let him keep him safe. But Derek broke the kiss and hesitantly reached up, wiping the length of his thumb over Stiles' cheek, whisking away the tears that Stiles didn't even know was coming from him. His cheeks grew hot and he struggled to look away, anywhere but at Derek, even though he was just looking concernedly at him. Derek leaned forward and placed another chaste kiss on his lips, his tongue flicking out and touching hotly to Stiles' lips before he drew back again. Stiles' phone was ringing out in his Jeep, the sound pulling them both out of whatever kind of moment they were having. Stiles' eyebrows knit together even as it dawned on him that his Dad would be pissed about him missing school.

He pulled away sharply and rose to go get his phone, Derek watching him as he gestured to his Jeep, knowing that the other could hear it just as well as he could. “It's probably my Dad.” His words were mumbled and low as he pulled the door open and walked out to his car. He had missed the call, but his phone buzzed as the voicemail came in. Sighing, he dialed to listen to it and leaned against the passenger side door. Derek wandered out with his hands in his pockets as his father's dulcet tones filtered through the speaker. Stiles had to hold the phone an inch away from his ear in order to not be blasted with it. Yup, his Dad was pissed.

He snapped his phone shut and heaved a sigh. His Dad had bought that he was resting at Scott's—he hadn't felt very good, he'd explained. His Dad made him promise that there wouldn't be anymore late nights when it was a school night. Stiles felt it was a little silly, but let him have his way. It wasn't often that his Dad stepped in with any requests of him, it would be bratty to push this one. Especially with Derek listening in. Derek just leaned against the hood of his Jeep with his hands in his pockets, alternating between staring at the ground, the sky and Stiles. It was quiet between them as a breeze rolled through, gentle and refreshing. It smelled clean and not quite like Beacon Hills—Stiles was about to ask, but Derek beat him to it.

“We're in the next town over.” He tilted his head and scuffed his bare foot against the gravel, a couple of stones skittering across the others before coming to a stop. Stiles put his phone in his pocket and nodded wordlessly. He looked at the tops of the trees, the green leaves fluttering and catching the bright sunlight; he slid sideways to rest his shoulder against Derek's. It was odd, but he felt just so _content_ in this moment. Sure, he'd just died and thus lost _another_ of his lives, and the guy who killed him was likely still out there looking for him, but he was safe and sharing a beautiful day with his alpha. Derek's arm went around his shoulders and he turned his head to place a kiss on the side of Stiles' head. Stiles scratched his cheek and let him.

{ _break_ }

Scott was more angry than Allison had ever seen him. There was something about the way Lydia kept looking at her when she didn't think Allison could see that made her feel like it was her fault. At lunch she sat with Lydia on one side and Scott on the other. She ate in silence, like if she drew attention to herself then the dam would break and she'd be the one the anger was aimed at. Not that she thought her friends would hurt her, but she didn't want to be on the opposite side of the fight again. Lydia made the off-hand comment when they were walking back to their lockers, Scott and Jackson already off to get their stuff down the hall.

“It's not your fault; don't think they don't realize that.” She flipped her strawberry blond hair and reapplied her lipstick, rubbing her lips together before glancing at Allison. Allison was all set to play dumb, but the knowing look that Lydia gave her made her stop. No, she wouldn't treat her like that. Her voice was almost like a whisper when she spoke.

“You know?” Her eyebrows were arched high and she felt cold. It had been so hard for her when she found out—she had to wonder how Lydia felt. Lydia put up one of her masks and smiled widely, reminding Allison instantly of the wolves.

“Of course I do, and before you start I know about your family too.” Lydia looked over her shoulder at the boys as they started approaching, “But I don't think that they care much beyond what happened and what kind of payback they can give.” Lydia met her eyes, “Just let them know you're on their side and I'm sure you'll be fine.”

It flabbergasted her, that Lydia was acting as if the wolves were just sup-ed up jocks and this was all a power-play. Allison had to give her credit, though, she did seem to adapt well.

{ _break_ }

“I should get home.”

Derek glanced at him from where he sat on the couch. Stiles had taken a shower and put his dirty clothes back on. He felt better now that there weren't flakes of dried blood stuck to his skin. He had been a little bit appalled by the sometimes pink, sometimes brown water running in rivulets down his stomach, but it was more at the quantity than the quality of it. He wasn't sure if it was a bullet hitting his heart or if it was blood loss that killed him, nor did he really want to think about it. His skin was still damp, making his clothing stick to his lower back and ribs. Derek was reading a magazine—cars, apparently. Stiles really should have guessed he liked them, seeing as he had a Camaro, still it was a bit surprising to know that the alpha had interests and a life outside of being a werewolf.

Stiles crossed to the couch and plopped down next to him as Derek closed the magazine and tossed it onto the table. Stiles pulled a knee up to his chest and rested his chin on it, arms hugging around his leg. Derek leaned back and put his arm up on the back of the couch behind Stiles. They looked at each other for a moment before Stiles relented and leaned into him again, his head falling into the nook between Derek's chin and shoulder easily. He sat there for a while, his arm slung around Derek's chest and Derek's arm curled around his shoulders, keeping him close. As odd as it was, Derek seemed to be thriving on this. Stiles kept stealing glances up at his face, but it seemed to be just as unreadable as always. Finally he cleared his throat.

“Really, I should go.” Stiles withdrew and looked into Derek's eyes, meaning to say something like 'thank you' or 'goodbye', but he was met with a broad hand on the side of his face and a chaste kiss pressed to his lips. When the kiss ended, Derek rested his forehead against Stiles' and spoke, his voice low and husky.

“I'll be watching you, so nothing else happens.”

He wasn't sure what to say to that, he choked back any words that might have come out anyway and nodded mutely, sitting still for a moment before scrambling up and heading out to his Jeep.

{ _break_ }

Scott and Jackson had Lacrosse practice, Lydia stayed to cheer them on, but Allison had excused herself. She needed to know what was really going on—her Dad _must_ know. Home was silent though, everyone was out. So she grabbed a bag of chips and a can of soda, dashing up the stairs and crashing in her room, trying to knock her homework out of the way. That way her Dad couldn't avoid answering her questions by making her go do it.

She was on the third to last math equation when the knock on the door sounded. She chewed her mouthful of chips quickly and guzzled what must have been a quarter of the soda can before going down to answer it. She held out hope that it was Scott, but he was probably still at practice—besides, he usually just climbed up to tap on her bedroom window. She yanked the door open with the thought that it was her Mom or Dad with groceries, but stopped short when it was a tall, scruffy man she didn't recognize.

“Hello?” Guardedly, she kept the door covering the most of her. He didn't smile, but he wasn't exactly frowning either. His voice was low and he had a heavy accent.

“Is your father here?”

{ _break_ }

Lydia had secretly been hoping for some more time alone with Allison; or as 'alone' as they could get while sitting on the bleachers watching Lacrosse practice. At least no one would be able to listen to them as Lydia drilled her with questions about werwolves and her family, the Hunters. But Allison had gone home, saying that she had a project due in History that she really needed to put some time into because she didn't want her grades to slip. Lydia had promised to help her with it if she just _stayed_ for Lacrosse practice, but she hadn't given in. Whatever.

Her eyes followed the two wolves as they went through the exercises. She wondered if Stiles would be keeping up with them—he probably would be. She forced herself not to think about that because if she did, she'd remember how he looked when he was laying in a pool of his own blood, dead and staring blankly at the scorched ceiling of the abandoned house in the middle of the woods. She didn't want to think about that. She pulled her sweatshirt tighter around her and pursed her lips, willing herself to stick with the present. The present that had a pack of sweaty teenage boys running laps and scrimmaging. It was a nice present.

When Jackson wasn't on the field he hesitantly approached her, panting only slightly. He took a long drink from his water bottle and laid his stick down on the bench in front of them, sitting beside her and watching the ongoing scrimmage. She didn't look at him at first, but his hand snuck into hers and caused her to glance over at him. “So you're done with the cat?”

Jackson looked startled for a second, but recovered quickly, squeezing her hand tightly and looking back across the field. “It was just instinct. I didn't mean to, I mean... you're the only one for me, Lydia.”

She was quiet as she took this in, brushing some errant strawberry blond curls out of her face as she looked over at him again. She leaned forward and rested her forehead against his cheek and spoke softly. “Good. 'Cause I don't want anyone else either.”

The rest of practice was quiet. Jackson left again as he was called back onto the field. He drove her home and they studied, sharing a few kisses in between chapters and questions.

{ _break_ }

When Stiles got home his Dad was still at work. He didn't bother to call him to let him know he was home—he'd find out when he got there. He trudged up the stairs and immediately set out to find some new clothes, shirking his old ones and putting them in the hamper. After that he wandered around the house, trying to think of what was best to say to his Dad. He couldn't tell him, which just sucked because he used to share everything with his Dad—before the whole Scott's a werewolf thing—yet he wanted to say _something_. But what? 'Hey Dad, I got shot and killed by this guy but don't worry, I can turn into a cat and have nine lives—well, seven now.'

But he couldn't tell him what he knew. He couldn't tell him the truth. He had to pretend to be sick. He had to protect his Dad (which admittedly sounded funny since he was older, wiser and a fuckin' _Sheriff_ , but you know...).

When his Dad finally got home, Stiles had cooked dinner as a sort of 'I'm sorry'. His Dad just frowned and told him he shouldn't be up and about if he's sick enough that he can't go to school. He shrugs and coughs, trying to sound both sick and awkward since that's how he feels. The awkward part, not the sick part; although maybe a little sick. The pasta he'd whipped up didn't look all that appetizing right then. He served his Dad and sat down, trying to fork a few bites into himself just to avoid conversation. It wasn't until his Dad got up and put his dishes in the sink that he said anything.

“This can't become the norm, you got it kiddo? Just because I let this happen once doesn't mean I won't come down hard if you start skipping all the time.” He gave Stiles a pointed look, but took some of the bite out of his words by rubbing his hand through Stiles' hair. Stiles just gave him a somewhat pathetic look and slowly ate the rest of his dinner.

His Dad was watching some TV and going over some file he'd brought home while sitting on the couch. Stiles just waved at him and went up to his room. He turned on his computer, but went to the window, looking out. He couldn't see anyone, but Derek had said he'd be there, watching. The car that had been his (now) killer's wasn't there. He breathed a sigh of relief and moved back to his computer. Scott was online, so it didn't take him long to get comfortable and start typing. Mostly it was Scott asking if he was okay—it threw him a bit to suddenly have Scott worried about _him_ instead of the other way around. He said goodnight fairly quickly and told him he'd see him tomorrow before logging off.

He was in bed with the lights off not long after that, but he was reading his Chemistry textbook by the moonlight instead of sleeping. If there was one thing that would make his Dad even more angry than skipping school, it was not doing the best that he could in his classes. Besides, he was sure that he missed something big in class today; he always did. The sound of his window scraping open alerted him, but the scent that came in on the evening breeze was Derek. His muscles relaxed and he waited as Derek slid through the window. His watching didn't seem to phase the alpha at all, he just closed the window and slipped his shoes off, his leather jacket being hung on the back of Stiles' computer chair.

It didn't even bother Stiles that Derek made himself comfortable, complete with climbing onto his bed and coming to rest next to him. He dipped his head to read the cover of the Chemistry textbook and snorted, but didn't say anything. Stiles rolled his eyes and concentrated on the book. It was only a matter of minutes before Derek's hands started to wander. It started as running over the quilt beneath them, then onto Stiles' hip and side, one arm made it's way around his shoulders while the other splayed out over his chest. He huffed and looked over at the wolf with a half-hearted glare. He didn't really expect to be listened to, so it was of little surprise that Derek continued without even a pause. Stiles snapped the textbook closed and smacked at the wandering hands.

“Do you mind?” He did his best to look irritated, but all he got in response was a low growl. “Seriously, why so touchy-feely?”

Derek crossed his arms and looked away, showing his frustration at the situation while he tried to come up with the words he wanted. Stiles knew how this went and just let him be. Derek took a few breaths and turned to look at him again, his lips already moving. “You died, Stiles. I'm just—I just... I'm glad that you're in one piece is all.”

His tone was gruff, but the sentiment was there. Stiles bumped shoulders with him and gave a goofy grin. “I knew you were a big softy.”

Derek gestured to the book that was still in Stiles' lap, purposefully avoiding his eyes. “Shouldn't you be reading that?”


	9. Call This Love or Madness

The man—a _Hunter_ —was sitting awkwardly at her dining room table, careful to not touch the table itself. Allison milled around, keeping her eye on him. She thought to offer him food and drink, not wanting to seem unwelcoming in case he took exception to that. She thought her Dad would never come home. When the SUV's engine came rumbling down the street and pulled into the drive, she let out a lungful she didn't realize she'd been holding. Her eyes flicked over to the man who had introduced himself as _Leon_ , as she straightened up from leaning against the counter. She didn't have to say it, but she did anyway. To fill the silence. “That should be him now.”

She moved to the door and pulled it open with a big smile for her Dad. Her eyes were a bit wider than usual and perhaps that was the first thing her father noticed. Or maybe it was _Leon_ hovering behind her shoulder. Either way, he didn't look very amused. He glanced behind him and shut the door as he came through it. He was curt and didn't bother to even look at her as he spoke. “Allison, go to your room.”

She fled, bounding up the stairs and out of sight, but stopped short of her door and glanced back. She closed the door in front of her, then got on her hands and knees and snuck down the hallway to the end of the wall, where the banister gave a clear view of the two men still standing silently right inside the front door. She laid herself down on the coarse carpet and tried to keep her breathing calm and quiet. Her Dad crossed his arms and frowned at Leon, speaking in a low voice. “What are you doing at my residence?”

Overly formal—Leon wasn't someone her Dad wanted here. Leon didn't act aggressively in the least. He just dipped his head and spoke in the same thick accent he'd had with the few words he spoke to her. “I will leave, but I don't want to have to come back.”

Chris' eyebrows knitted and he shifted uncomfortably, like he didn't quite know what the man meant and he had a question on the tip of his tongue. Leon continued, plowing through her Dad's attempt to take back control of the conversation. “I know you hunt these... _Werewolves_... but WerKatze are different. You need to know the signs of one going feral. Then I'll feel safe leaving it in your care.”

Were-cats? It? Allison thought back to how Scott had said Stiles had died. Maybe he wasn't being melodramatic. Maybe, if cats had nine lives then were-cats had nine lives too. Maybe he'd been telling her exactly what had happened. Allison stayed put, listening to the rest of the conversation. It was mostly about him returning during the day with reference material and her Dad arranging so the other hunters would be in the house. How Leon was going to teach them. She couldn't help thinking that it was just her and Lydia who were human now. How Stiles was in over his head. Her Dad was going to learn how to kill him, just like he knew how to kill Scott, Jackson and Derek.

{ _break_ }

Stiles wakes up in his bed alone. That's okay, though, he thinks. He didn't really want to wake up with Derek there. It was weird enough that he had slept next to him last night. Sure, they had—they had kissed—but it wasn't like they were best buds or anything. He picked himself up from his sprawled position on his bed and kicks the blanket off of him. He wasn't sure when he had pulled it over him, nor when he'd really fallen asleep. It was three in the morning. He checked his email, fixed himself a breakfast of grape jelly on an english muffin and gobbled it down. He finished getting ready and then lounged at his computer, starting up _World of Warcraft_ to do some dailies he'd been neglecting. He actually missed playing the game with Scott, or _any_ game really. It had all been stalled when Scott was bitten. He's have to talk Scott into playing again. The rest of the morning was filled with gaming in his waking hours and a cat nap before his Dad was out the door and reminding him that he needed to go to school today.

School wasn't so bad, except he had to park _really_ far away. He attended his morning classes and slapped Scott on the back when he saw him. Nothing was weird until they all met up at lunch. Allison was quick to join them and just as quick to turn and talk to him, which was out of the ordinary anyway. Most of the 'conversations' they had went through Scott. Which he was totally fine with, by the way.

“My Dad know about you.” She cast a furtive look at Scott, leaning closer to him as she spoke in a low hiss, “I think all of them know, actually. So you need to be careful.”

His stomach turned, his eyes darted around to check all their faces. He slouched in his seat, acted like he was going to take a drink of water but stopped the bottle an inch from his face and mumbled. “You mean they're gonna start hunting me too?”

Allison pressed her lips together harshly and her forehead creased with concern. “Just be careful. Don't hurt anyone and they'll leave you alone.”

He sat up a bit and leaned over the table. The others were eating at a steady pace, not really paying attention to the food going into their mouths in lieu of the conversation happening between the two. “You think I'd hurt someone?”

She shook her head, dark brown curls bouncing over her shoulders, “Of course not, Stiles.”

He slumped back and took a drink, trying not to glare daggers at her—it was a friendly, preemptive warning, that was all. She said one last thing before shutting up for the rest of the meal. “I think he's leaving town, too.”

“Who? Your dad?” That was Scott chiming in.

“No, Leon. The guy who... the guy who killed Stiles.”

He couldn't say he felt anything other than joy at that, but he had to wonder why. Not that he planned on walking up to him and asking. No siree—he was going to stay as far away from that guy as possible. Dying wasn't the best feeling on the planet and he wasn't feeling the urge to repeat it too soon. The next few days were quiet, though he was continually checking over his shoulder. He hoped it didn't make him look like a paranoid schizophrenic, but he guessed that it probably did. Derek tended to pop in during the evening when his Dad was asleep and Stiles was busy either playing some sort of video game or reading. They would usually sit shoulder to shoulder and have some quiet conversation that didn't include any threats, like they used to. It was a nice change of pace.

Friday of the same week and he was still looking over his shoulder and jumping at loud noises. Who could blame him, really? Jackson thumped him on the shoulder in the locker room as they changed for practice and shook his head, chuckling softly after he'd physically startled at a loud crash of a bench falling on it's side.

“What?” He practically snapped at the wolf. Jackson just shook his head and laughed a little louder. Scott shoved him with a scowl, but Jackson's arm was still tossed over his shoulder. Stiles slammed his locker closed and pulled his second glove on, scowling in Jackson's direction too. He shrugged his arm off and basically bared his teeth when he spoke.

“That's not winning you any points, you know.” He wasn't quite sure why he'd called out the whole situation that he at least still felt he was in. You know, the thing about having two wolves vying for his attention. He had been content before to just leave it be and hope that they'd both eventually leave him alone, but him and his _stupid_ mouth... Jackson sobered and gave him a quizzical look. Scott was already wandering out with the rest of the team, but Jackson grabbed Stiles' arm and turned him back to face him when he tried to follow.

He started slowly, “You... do realize that I'm not—” He looked around for anyone listening and pulled Stiles closer. “I can't—not with you. Wouldn't have the chance even if I wanted to.”

Stiles wasn't sure he was understanding Jackson in the least, all he wanted to do was get out of there and forget the conversation ever happened. His masochistic curiosity won out though. “What do you mean?”

Jackson took a breath and refused to meet his eyes.

“What, Jackson? Come on, tell me.” More of a demand than pleading. He really should remember that these wolves could easily turn on him and eat his face off. He gulped back the instinctive apology that was beginning to raise to his lips. Jackson still wouldn't meet his eyes as he spoke.

“No one else can have you, alright? You're the alpha's. You're Derek's.”

{ _break_ }

They clasped hands in a strong grip and shook. “If there's any problems...”

Chris finished his sentence, “I'll call you.”

He nodded sharply and threw the last of his bags in the back seat of the car. He couldn't wait to see his daughter again, to tuck her in at night and kiss her forehead. To brush her blonde curls and not worry about this cat. He couldn't hurt her, after all, and there were some good hunters here. He trusted them. He climbed into the driver's seat and started the car. He was headed to the airport, to finally be done with this hunt. He knew that there would be others, but they were few and far between these days. He would have a reprieve. He glanced in his rear view mirror at the man who stood there with his arms crossed over his chest.

They were a lot alike, Chris Argent and he. He liked the man and trusted that he would do everything in his power to keep his own daughter safe here in Beacon Hills.

{ _break_ }

Stiles had made leaps and bounds from playing last year (not to mention the year before that), or that's what Coach Finstock had said. He'd been made first string much to a lot of the player's reluctance. His Dad was overjoyed to hear the news and had gone out of his way to make it to the first game of the season. It was a home game, the bleachers on both sides of the field were packed with loudly talking people. The game had yet to start, but they were on the field, doing their warm ups. Really it was more of lackadaisically tossing a ball back and forth, sometimes throwing one towards Danny. Stiles was trying not to be too excited—after all, he had to work hard to keep up with Scott and Jackson when he'd rather just curl up in the sun-warmed grass and nap.

He was still struggling to keep up with the two half-way through the game. They were easily winning (you can't beat a team that has two werewolves and one were-cat with an all human team, after all), but he just couldn't seem to snap out of it. The pull of sleep was getting to him as he sat down heavily and took a big drink from his water bottle. Jackson elbowed him, nodding toward the bleachers. Stiles sighed and closed the water bottle with his teeth. “I know my Dad's there, Jackson. He's been there since the beginning.”

Jackson was taking a drink at the time and just shook his head, pointing rather obviously this time. Stiles decided he might as well look. Standing a bit off to the side, but close to the edge of the field with his hands balled up in his pockets was one Derek Hale. When Stiles met his eyes he smiled—like really, honestly, genuinely smiled—and it scared the crap out of Stiles. He was sitting ramrod straight with his heart hammering in his chest. Were those butterflies in his stomach?

The whistle blew and they were back on the field. Stiles was having no trouble keeping up with Scott and Jackson now, the adrenaline from earlier coursing through him and keeping him very much awake for the rest of the game. They won, 8-3, and celebrated loudly as they went back to the locker rooms. Stiles had actually made two of those goals—which was impressive (to himself).

Many thumps on the back later and his Dad was bear-hugging him. He called him _Champ_ and grinned like it was going out of style. He was leaving to go back to work, get some paperwork together before heading home and would Stiles be alright to catch a ride with someone home? Stiles nodded and hurried off to grab his stuff.

Derek found him as he was walking out of the locker room for the second time, skin still damp from showering and his clothes sticking a bit to him. He had been intending to catch a ride with Allison or Jackson if he was really unlucky, but Derek just caught him around his shoulders and led him out to the Camaro at a relaxed speed. After they had left the throng of people waiting for those still in the locker room, Derek spoke, kicking a pebble along as they walked.

“You did great out there.” He glanced at Stiles and pulled him close to his side. Stiles couldn't put it out of his head how he and Derek were somehow—somehow _together_ even though they really weren't. It was difficult to not get agitated even when having a normal, inane conversation. He shrugged, lopsided because of the weight of his gear bag. Derek said nothing else until they got in the car.

“You're eating with your Dad, right?” The question was asked as he was pulling out of the parking space, Stiles' gear sweaty in the backseat and the evening sunlight glinting yellow through the windshield. He nodded and squinted against the sun, settling into the warm leather seat and letting the scent of car and Derek wash over him. He was content. No more heart pounding, no more adrenaline. No more freaking out. It was comfortable. Derek had a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Would he kill you if we stopped for ice cream first?”

Stiles looked over and smiled. “Probably not.”

As they wound through the streets, Stiles watched the houses and shops go by the window. Overall he couldn't say he was disappointed in the arrangement they had. It was like having Scott back full-time. They played games, wrestled, and talked. But there was the added bonus of an awesome car (still not as awesome as his baby, but still pretty awesome), abs that he couldn't help but reach for every time they came into view, and no more vicious threats. Derek interrupted his thoughts, turning down the music and speaking without looking over at Stiles at all.

“So I've been following that hunter that shot you.” He didn't like to talk about Stiles being dead, so he always said 'shot' instead of 'killed'. Stiles didn't like where it was going, though. He scowled and slouched lower in his seat.

“Why would you do that? He could hurt you.” He spoke to the windshield.

This time Derek glanced at him, his eyebrows knitting together. “Avoiding the problem isn't really a solution, Stiles.”

“Yes it is.” He mumbled it under his breath, but Derek didn't seem to hear him. If he did, he ignored it.

“Anyway, he left town earlier.”

Stiles sat up straight and looked at him. “What?”

Derek took a turn a little sharply, eased on the brake and licked his lips before speaking. “He left. Said he was going back home. He and Argent shook hands before he left.”

“Allison's Dad? She said they'd buddied up.” He looked resolutely through the window, not wanting to count his chicks before they hatched. If he got excited because of this, it meant that the next bad thing coming his way would hit harder and it would hit sooner. So he chose to not let his hopes up. Derek pulled into the parking lot and parked the car.

“Well, he's gone now. I swept the town just to be sure.” He got out and waited for Stiles before they stepped into line together. Stiles didn't say anything until he ordered. After that he let Derek pay because his wallet was in the back seat of the Camaro and his cotton candy ice cream was dripping down the side of his waffle cone, keeping him busy. They leaned against a railing as they ate. Derek finished first and ushered him back to the car. Stiles felt like his fingers were going to be permanently sticky after this and kept licking at them as Derek drove. When Derek reached over to switch the gear Stiles' left (and non-sticky) hand found his. A small smile played at the corners of Derek's mouth, letting their fingers twine together, resting between them as Stiles went back to looking out the window.


End file.
